The Life That Never Was
by trueunbeliever
Summary: Mary died, leaving John to raise the boys on his own. Unable to care for them, he abandons them at a hospital in Chicago and goes off to hunt alone. Death watches the Winchester brothers and counts the lives that could have been saved.
1. Abandoned

It had only been two months since Mary had died. To John, it seemed like she had died only yesterday. To John, it seemed as if he'd had to live with her death for a decade. He knew just how the boys were coping. Dean wouldn't speak, not a word after what he'd seen. It was traumatic to say the least and John had seen enough that he knew how horrible things could get.

Dean had seen the worst of anything John could imagine. He watched his mother burn on the ceiling, screaming in agony as blood dripped from the gaping wound on her stomach. He hadn't spoken a word since that night. John thought that it would pass after a while, could have sworn he'd heard low whispers coming from his son when he was sure no one was listening, but he couldn't be sure about anything. Dean needed help and John couldn't give it to him.

John had seen the thing that killed her. He'd seen the yellow-eyed bastard turn and smirk tauntingly at him through the bedroom window where Mary had gone up in flames along with the rest of the house. He knew what was out there. He was tracking it in his every waking moment, looking to find the smug sonofabitch so he could rip it apart piece by piece. He didn't sleep, didn't eat, couldn't think past his next move, the next hunt, the next town.

That was no life for a child.

Dean was only four, traumatized beyond anything John had seen. He'd been loud, mischievous, rampaging through the house with yells and stomping feet while he played. He'd been stubborn as his mother, only giving in when he'd been thoroughly convinced as to why he needed to do something. He'd been a hell of a four year old—smart and loving, if a bit rough and cunning. That wasn't Dean anymore though.

He was compliant now, pliable in the worst of ways. It didn't take even a single look from John before Dean was tending to things, helping pack, feeding Sammy, handing him another drink, never speaking, never protesting when something was too hard for him. John had found him perching precariously on a makeshift ladder trying to get the baby formula from the too-high cabinet to tend to a crying Sammy. John had yelled at the boy then. He'd been just one breath away from falling and hurting himself and John was more worried and scared than angry at him, but he couldn't keep from scolding his son—something, anything to keep him from doing anything so reckless again.

Dean still didn't say anything though. He just stood there, trembling at the anger in his father's voice, tears slowly streaking his face. He didn't set his foot down or explain the completely valid reason he was trying to reach the cabinet. He just shrunk further into himself and John knew it, but couldn't do anything but pull him roughly into a hug and apologize for the umpteenth time for the life they had. When John released him, Dean just picked up the formula from where it'd dropped on the floor and continued to make Sammy a bottle, not so much as a peep from the child.

John crept to the doorway of the small bedroom Dean and Sammy were in, taking care that the eldest wasn't aware of him. He listened closely, over the sounds of Sammy drinking his bottle, to the almost-but-not-quite silent whispers of SammySammySammy he'd heard, but could never really make out until now.

John couldn't keep doing this. He didn't know how to take care of two boys by himself. He was never a real parent. Mary had made up for it by being the best mother he could imagine, but he'd always been clueless. Even when Dean was an infant, he'd bumbled around clueless until Mary took over. If it wasn't for Dean now, John wasn't even sure he could keep Sammy alive, let alone happy and safe like the four year old did. Dean definitely didn't deserve this life and Sammy needed someone who could take real care of him.

John pulled into the parking lot of a passing pizza joint for one last meal with his boys. Dean wouldn't say anything, but the way his eyes went wide and he licked his lips before making a mess with his slice of real Chicago style pizza made the stop more than worth it. John had brought the camera inside with him and he snapped a polaroid of both his boys side by side, Dean with pizza sauce all over his face and Sammy asleep in his carrier.

They left an hour later, though John had barely touch his slice, and were back on the road for only fifteen minutes before John pulled up in front of a nice looking hospital. He unbuckled Dean and Sammy from their car seats, placing the still-sleeping infant in Dean's arms. He slung the diaper bag over Dean's shoulder and made sure it had anything he would need for the next few hours until things were sorted.

John sunk down on his knees and pulled them into another hug. He'd never really been one for displays of affection, but he was damned if he was leaving without something. When he pulled back, Dean looked at him curiously and John smirked. Dean didn't even really need to speak with such an expressive face. John could always tell just what he was thinking.

"Take your brother inside, Dean, and stay put until someone—a doctor or a nurse—comes to get you. Understand?"

Dean nodded once, still confused.

"I love you both," he said, standing up. "Take care of Sammy."

Dean nodded again, this time with a fierce look of determination on his face. He would always take care of Sammy, John knew. He never needed to be told.

John stood up. "Go, Dean," he said.

He watched the four year old walk through the front door of the hospital before he got in his car and left. John wasn't an idiot. He wouldn't leave his boys there on their own without someone watching out for them. He dawned his technical support coverall and matching badge, and officialed his way through to the security department. He watched the monitors closely, looking out for his sons, until he was sure they were in safe hands. Once his boys were taken from the hospital, John followed once more to be sure the social worker was legit.

If he was being honest with himself, he'd known he was having trouble letting go. They were safe now, though. They would be taken in by a family that would care for them better than John ever could. They would have lives and grow up away from the things that went bump in the night. They wouldn't even remember John or Mary burning on the ceiling. Dean would speak again, smile even. They'd be happy.

That thought was the only thing that kept John from busting into the building and taking his sons back.

* * *

_Death counted eight. John's decisions would lead to the reaping of eight souls that night. The nurse who discovered the children would call her sister after work. The sister would answer her car phone, cutting someone off in the process. The man she cut off, already angry over his wife's transgressions, would kill eight people the next morning, including his wife's and his own._

_If John hadn't decided to take his children to the hospital, if the nurse hadn't called, if the sister hadn't cut him off, the man would come home angry and be arrested later on that night for spousal abuse, no loss of life in the scenario._

_As a matter of fact, that was how things were supposed to play out. Death had a copy of the unpublished manuscript. He needed one if he was to know where to send his reapers. John Winchester hadn't necessarily gone completely off script with his choice. It was more as if he had chosen to follow a different, much less appreciated, plotline. Death had the manuscript for that one as well, but he had been sure it wouldn't play out that way. It just went to prove that even Death wasn't infallible._

_That racked up the death toll by eight people. It wasn't much—nothing, really—in the grand scheme of things, but this was just the first of many decisions that were to be made. There would be much more work cut out for him and his reapers in the coming years what with the impending apocalypse and all. He would consider the time before that as a sort of vacation. _

* * *

**Being a writer and all, I'm going to tell a story along with this one. My friend started watching _Supernatural_ like a week ago and after the first episode, she goes, "That's messed up, man. Why didn't John just, like, I dunno, put them up for adoption or something?" That got me thinking. So what did I do? I wrote. This was _supposed to be_ a one shot with the only scene being John dropping them off at the hospital and that's it, finito, finished. For some reason, though, I reeeeeally have trouble keeping things short and simple. Instead, what I did was add a scene with Death that ended up leaving a lot of unanswered questions and too many possibilities. Of course, that meant I continued the story with quite a few thousand more words. So, on to chapter two, Fearless Readers! Read On!** **Oh, and hit that comment button people :) Have any ideas? Hit me up. I'm open.**

**Oh and before I forget, *SPOILERS: up to season 3. **


	2. Waiting

Dean sat in the waiting room, surrounded by waiting adults and waiting children and did as the room's name implied. He waited.

Sammy squirmed in his lap, rustled by the noise of the other children screaming and yelling, and fell quickly asleep again. His Sammy hadn't slept well the night before. Dean woke up to his whining three times before they could turn to screams and wake Daddy. Daddy wouldn't have been able to do anything. Only Dean knew how to calm Sammy down when he got fussy. Because Sammy was his, just like he was Sammy's. He didn't know why Daddy even thought he had to remind Dean to watch out for his brother. He didn't need to be reminded to do that. He always took care of Sammy.

Not even the man who killed Mommy could lay a finger on his brother. Dean saw him in the room before Mommy was crying and scared and the fire started. Dean was supposed to be asleep, but he wasn't. He'd snuck downstairs to watch TV with Daddy after Mommy had gone to bed, not that either of them knew that. He went upstairs and back to bed and saw the man in Sammy's room. He was as tall as Daddy and scary because Dean knew no one else was supposed to be in Sammy's room, but then Dean heard Mommy waking up and he rushed quickly to his room where he was supposed to be sleeping.

Dean knew it was his fault. He didn't listen to Mommy when she told him to go to bed. He didn't listen to Daddy when he told him to take care of Sammy. He didn't stop the man from lighting the house on fire with Mommy still inside.

Daddy didn't know that Dean was in the room right after he was and that he'd seen Mommy on the ceiling, crying, or that while Daddy was looking at Sammy in the crib, she'd looked right at Dean and whispered his name.

Dean hadn't listened and now Mommy was gone and Daddy was sad and Sammy wouldn't remember taco Tuesdays or pie for dessert or how Mommy would hum them to sleep. Now Sammy didn't have a Mommy, but he did have a Dean. The night Mommy died, Dean made a promise. He promised that, from now on, he would listen and he would learn and he would do anything he could to keep Sammy safe and happy. There was no Mommy to take care of Sammy so Dean did everything a Mommy would do for Sammy. There wasn't a Mommy to take care of Daddy either so Dean tried his hardest to help, but Daddy was harder.

He couldn't whisper in Daddy's ear and rock him to sleep like he did for Sammy. He couldn't feed him or teach him. Daddy did those things for Dean now, even though sometimes he had to go away.

Daddy was sad and it was Dean's fault.

Sammy was alone and it was Dean's fault.

Dean was sad and alone and he knew it was what he deserved for not doing what he was supposed to, what Mommy and Daddy had told him over and over. Now, he only had one goal, one rule, one order to center his life around: Protect Sammy.

Sammy squirmed again in Dean's lap, pulling him from his thoughts. Dean reached into the diaper bag for the bottle Sammy hadn't finished that morning. He was probably hungry. He hadn't eaten since before Dean ate pizza with Daddy a long car ride and waiting in the hospital ago. He probably needed to change Sammy's diaper also. Now that he thought about it, he could smell it.

He focused on feeding Sammy first, uncapping the bottle easily and holding it to Sammy's mouth. Sammy was old enough now that he could hold the bottle on his own, but Dean liked holding it for him so he did, making sure to wipe his mouth sometimes when the formula dripped down his chin.

Fed and happy, Dean worked on changing Sammy's diaper. Things got complicated really fast then. He had the diaper open in front of him, wipes at the ready like he'd been taught. He cleaned Sammy quickly, not wanting to prolong the awful smell coming from the cooing infant. He rolled the dirty diaper and the yucky wipes and set it aside. A fresh diaper was harder to put on Sammy since he was big. When he was little, it was easier for Dean to move him how he wanted, but Sammy didn't like having a new diaper on so it was a bit of a struggle to get him changed now that he was clean. Dean did it though. He got the diaper securely fastened around Sammy's waist and pulled his pants up quickly.

Dean sat Sammy up in the chair. Now that he was awake, Sammy could sit there on his own. He didn't need Dean to hold him. Dean scanned the room quickly, looking for a trash can to throw the diaper away and was met with the concerned faces of every Mommy in the room.

"You need some help, bud?" a Mommy asked him, getting down on her knee to speak to him at eye level.

Dean thought about it and shook his head, no. Daddy said doctors and nurses. He didn't say anything about Mommies and that meant no. Dean was doing what he was supposed to do: take care of Sammy and wait for a nurse or a doctor to get him. He didn't need any help with those.

"Are you sure?"

Dean nodded. The Mommy, though, didn't seem to want to leave him alone.

"Is your mom or dad here?" she asked.

Dean didn't want to answer any more of her questions so he turned away from her and sat next to Sammy, hugging him close. He didn't know who the Mommy was, but he knew better than to talk to strangers, even if he wasn't really talking. He left the dirty diaper on the chair next to him. When a doctor or nurse found him, he would throw it away. Until then, he would sit here and wait like he was supposed to. No talking to Mommies or Daddies or other kids. Only him and Sammy like it should be.

The Mommy kept looking at him, but he ignored her as he sat next to his brother. Dean reached into the diaper bag and pulled out Sammy's favorite toy, happy that Daddy hadn't forgot it. He gave it to Sammy who cooed in delight at the colorful plastic ring of keys which went promptly into his mouth. The Mommy left and Dean was happy. It was easier for him to take care of Sammy when someone wasn't looking.

The feeling was short lived, however, when the Mommy returned with a nurse and a police officer in tow.

Dean hugged Sammy closer when the nurse crouched down to talk to him. "Hi," she said. "I'm Jenny. Can you tell me your name?"

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again. He shook his head, no.

"That's good," Nurse Jenny said, smiling at him.

She had a nice smile and Dean really liked it. He wanted her to stay, even if it was only for a little while. He was happy that it was a nice nurse who came to get him and not the one who only came into the room to call out names before disappearing again. She didn't look as nice as Nurse Jenny.

"It's important not to talk to strangers," she continued. "But this here," she looked up at the man next to her who was dressed like a police officer, "is Officer Steve. You know that it's okay to talk to police officers and nurses, right?"

Dean nodded. He knew. Daddy had told him that it was okay to talk to doctors and nurses and police officers and fire fighters and teachers and pastors and Sammy, so it was okay. He wasn't breaking any rules if he answered her questions.

"That's good. It'll be much easier this way," Nurse Jenny said. "So, can you tell me your name?"

Dean shook his head again.

"How about this guy?" she pointed to the baby wiggling in Dean's arms. "Is he your brother?"

Dean nodded his head and his mouth twitched in a small smile.

"What's _his_ name?" Nurse Jenny asked.

Dean ruffled through the diaper bag and pulled out the only thing he had left from Mommy and the old house: the small blanket he'd carried Sammy outside in, the one that had his name on it. He handed it to Nurse Jenny who read it quickly—much quicker than Dean could read, that was for sure—and gave it back. Dean wrapped it around Sammy, making sure he was warm and comfortable before he faced Nurse Jenny again.

"Well, Sammy's Brother. How about we take care of you. Do you know where your mom or dad are?"

Dean nodded, then shook his head.

"Are they here, in the hospital?"

Dean shook his head again.

"Do they know where you are?"

Yes.

"Did they leave you here?"

Yes.

"Are you sure? You didn't accidentally wander off? I won't be mad, promise."

Dean shook his head, frowning. He would never do that. Maybe he would before, but not now. Why would he ever wander off away from Daddy when he needed to take care of Sammy?

"Well," Nurse Jenny said, standing up. "How about I hand you over to Officer Steve and we can get things situated?"

She reached for Sammy, but Dean held tight. Daddy said to go with Nurse Jenny, but he didn't say anything about them holding Sammy. No one was allowed to hold Sammy except for Daddy and Dean. Sammy didn't like it when anyone else tried to pick him up. Really, it was easier if they let Dean take him.

Nurse Jenny didn't seem to understand though because she pried Dean's arms from the babbling toddler and lifted him up into her arms. As soon as Sammy realized what was happening, he let out a wail and threw his keys to the floor, squirming any way he could to get out of the unfamiliar arms that held him. The abrupt change caught Nurse Jenny off guard and she nearly dropped Sammy only to catch him again. Sammy had turned all the way around to face Dean and was reaching for him desperately, tears coursing down his chubby face and loud screams coming from his throat.

Dean pulled on Nurse Jenny's shirt and she looked down at him, nearly panicking at having to juggle the frenzied infant. Dean held his arms up at her, asking silently for his Sammy.

She didn't really have a choice. The baby was proving to be more adept in his struggles than she was in restraining him. Dean seemed to be the only calm one in this situation. Officer Steve was trying to help, but he was even more clueless than she was and was nearly ready to call for backup just to help with the screaming kid. They had already attracted the attention of the entire room. Even those who had previously been polite enough to at least avert their eyes while they dealt with the situation were staring.

Nurse Jenny told Dean to sit back down in the chair before she passed him his brother. She didn't think he would be able to hold the baby any better than she had, but almost as soon as Sammy was in Dean's arms, he settled down.

She watched Dean shush the crying baby until he was cooing a chant of _deeeedeeeedeeedeee_ and giggling as his brother played with him. Less than a minute later, it was as if nothing had happened. The baby was babbling in his brother's arms and Dean was watching Nurse Jenny with a somewhat smug smile that she hadn't thought possible on a four year old.

It took a bit of maneuvering, but Officer Steve eventually ended up with an armful of Dean who clung tightly to his younger brother. Luckily, they were small enough that it wasn't much of a problem to hold them both in his arms. Sammy seemed content with being held as long as Dean was there also so Dean didn't see a problem with it.

Nurse Jenny put the blanket and Sammy's keys in the diaper bad and flung it over her shoulder, following right behind Officer Steve to the children's ward where they could better accommodate the two boys. A social worker would arrive to sort things out later.

Sammy liked the children's ward much better than the waiting room. Dean could tell. They had a whole roomful of toys, even ones for babies like Sammy. Nurse Jenny tried to get Dean to play—first with blocks, then with action figures—but he was content just to sit in the corner, watching Sammy crawling around the small toy room. When Sammy saw that Dean wasn't playing, he made it his mission to bring him toys. It became a game between the two of them.

Sammy would push a toy across the floor to Dean's corner. Dean would act surprised and happy and tickle his brother until he smacked him away, only to repeat it again with every toy he could push across the room. Nurse Jenny watched them the whole time. Even after another nurse came in, Dean clung to Nurse Jenny—he liked her and the other nurse smelled funny—until she promised to stay. She seemed alright with sitting in a corner and helping Sammy bring Dean toys whenever he tried to move something too heavy for him. Dean was happy she was there, especially when Sammy started getting fussy.

Dean rose from his corner and tugged on her shirt to get her attention.

She looked down at him, curious. "What is it, Dee?" she asked. After hearing Sammy call him that over and over, she'd caught on.

Dean tapped his wrist twice, a question on his face.

"The time?"

He nodded.

She looked at the analog clock on the wall. "It's almost twelve-thirty," she said. "Why? You have something you have to do?" She was trying to be funny, but Dean nodded seriously.

He looked around for the diaper bag and found it sitting on a table on the other side of the small room. He stood on the chair to see into it and grabbed an empty bottle and the formula. He handed the bottle to Nurse Jenny and held up eight fingers.

"Eight ounces?" she asked, unsure of what he was trying to tell her.

Dean nodded excitedly, happy that she understood him so easily.

She left the room and was back again in just under a minute with a filled bottle. "Okay," she said. "How do I do this?" She picked up the can of formula and attempted to read the directions on the back.

Dean was impatient. He pulled on her shirt again and pointed to the bottle and formula in turn. She looked skeptical, but handed them both to Dean.

Dean set them on the floor and doled out the necessary scoops of formula before capping the bottle and shaking it as hard as he could. When it was done, he put the top back on the can of formula and set it in the diaper bag. He grabbed the burp rag and scrambled over to Sammy to give him his bottle. Sammy took it happily, leaving the toys on the floor, and drank it down quickly. Dean cleaned him up, checked his diaper—still clean—and went to sit back in his corner to watch Sammy play.

Nurse Jenny took all of this in, shocked. Four year old Dee was more capable of taking care of his infant brother than most adults she knew. It was a product of lots and lots of practice. She didn't know who their mother and father were, but she hated them with a passion in that moment. When the social worker arrived, she would definitely have a few things to say about these boys. The youngest seemed well adjusted and happy, but the Eldest… He was the saddest kid she'd ever seen—and working in the hospital, she'd seen plenty of sad children. He didn't smile. He didn't speak. He didn't seem to want to do anything that didn't center around his brother. The whole situation was just horrible. She didn't want to know what could make a child behave this way. He was too little to be carrying the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders.

She did, however, know one way to lessen his burden. It had probably been a while since he, himself, had eaten. "Hey, Dee," she called. The young boy looked up at her with trusting eyes and she wondered, not for the first time, what she'd done to deserve it. "It's lunch time. Are you hungry?"

She watched as he thought about it, curious as to what was running through his mind. Even with simple questions, he took his time to think before he answered. Was he trying to decipher what she was asking, she wondered, or was he thinking of how to communicate nonverbally with her? Either way, he spent a lot of time in his head and it was hell trying to coax him out. It seemed as if only Sammy had the power to do that.

Dean nodded his head, glancing at Sammy again to check on him.

"Well, what do you want? The kitchen can make pretty much anything. Hot dogs, pizza, mac and cheese. Your choice."

Dean thought again and held up his hand with three fingers. It was getting easier and easier for her to understand him.

"Mac and cheese it is. I'll be back. Okay, Dee?"

Dean nodded his understanding and turned his attention back to his brother.

* * *

**I'll have another chapter posted in the next few days or so. This fic is _this close _to finished. When I'm done, updates will come more frequently. Don't forget to comment :) Read on!**


	3. Orphans

"His name's Dean, but everyone calls him 'Dee,'" Sister Theresa said. "He really is the most obedient little boy who's ever passed through these doors if you can believe it. Sad story though. I pray for that child."

The man next to her was shocked at her choice of words. The boy seemed healthy enough. Six years old with the cutest—his wife could not keep from saying—freckles peppering his nose. He was small and quiet enough that they hadn't noticed him right away, but once they had… well. He could be sure his wife was already picking a color scheme for his bedroom. He couldn't help but chuckle at her enthusiasm even though he was just as excited. It was like they'd just found the one member to complete their family. It wasn't in his looks, though no one would be able to tell right away that he was adopted, but more so in his actions. Right now, he was leaning over a crying little girl offering her a crayon. She batted it away, but he just shrugged and moved on, not perturbed in the least at her reaction. Dee was giving, sweet, and, according to the Sister, obedient. For Sister Theresa to make such a comment, something had to have happened that had her worried.

His wife also seemed to be thinking along the same lines as him. "What happened?" she asked, mimicking his thoughts.

"About two years ago, he watched his mother perish in a house fire," the sister stated. "After that, well, we're not so sure. He was abandoned in a hospital a couple of months after along with his infant brother and hasn't spoken a word since they found him. The father left a note with them, but it didn't say much but for their names and the concern that Dee might have a few behavioral problems."

"Behavioral problems?" the man wondered.

The Sister smiled. "He sees a counselor every two weeks, but we haven't had a problem with him. He listens when you talk to him and he'll respond when prompted, though he still doesn't speak. It's easy enough to understand him once you spend enough time to get to know him. The biggest concern I have is that he's too independent. He has trouble relying on others for help."

Both the man and his wife were confused at that statement. Dee couldn't be more than six years old.

The sister picked up on their skepticism and explained. "About three weeks ago, I had to find a way to get him down from the top of the fridge at two in the morning. Dee was trying to unlock the upper cabinet where we keep the medicine because his brother was sick and it was time for another dose.

"He's smart and resourceful," she continued, "and, despite his age, he knows how to take care of himself and his brother. I don't have any doubts in my mind that, if I hadn't come down for the same reason as him, Dee would have found the bottle and given Sammy the correct dose of medicine at the right time. As I said, it's something we've had to work on. He's slowly learning to ask for help instead of taking it upon himself, but it's been a slow process."

He could see how that might be a problem, though it wasn't anything they couldn't handle.

"He has a brother here?" his wife asked. He'd heard also, but somehow hadn't managed to realize how that might be a problem.

"Yes. Sammy is two, going on three. He walks and talks and is nearly potty trained. If you really are interested in taking Dee," Sister Theresa cautioned, "I want you to be aware that they are both a packaged deal. The last time we tried to separate Dee from his brother… it didn't go smoothly."

Seeing as Sister Theresa probably wasn't supposed to be going this in depth about Dee's history, the man was surprised that she was hesitant to explain exactly what had happened.

"What happened?" he asked. If they were going to take Dee without his brother, he wanted to be well informed as to what they should expect.

"He threw a tantrum," the Sister started. "The first we'd ever seen and he'd been with us for a year and a half by this point. We'd never heard a peep from him before, thought he was a mute, but he screamed at the top of his lungs for hours, bit, hit, kicked anyone who came near him. When he began hitting his head against the floor, we had to restrain him. It wasn't our first rodeo, but no one was as shocked as I was that he'd be so forceful. It took three days, and a promise that we wouldn't take him away, to separate him from his brother."

"But you said there were no behavioral problems," his wife intoned.

"None. He's a very well behaved boy. We've separated them for doctors appointments and Dee is in school now—first grade. He's perfectly alright with that. He's smart enough to understand, though, that adoption is permanent and that he'd be separated from his brother indefinitely. That, he won't tolerate. Despite his obedience, he _is_ rather stubborn." The Sister chuckled, instantly relieving the tension that had built during their conversation. "He's very protective of Sammy."

Just then a loud yell from another room had Dee up and running.

"As a matter of fact…" Sister Theresa said, following the boy out of the room.

The man and his wife followed, curious as to what was happening. Dee had looked panicked when he'd heard the yell and he was much faster than they thought he'd be.

The Sister led them two doors down the hall, into the kitchen, where they heard another Sister speaking quietly to Dee.

"He just won't eat it. I've been trying for nearly ten minutes now, but I keep telling him that he isn't getting down to play until he finishes his broccoli."

They walked in to see Dee nodding at the Sister, urging her to continue.

"He's only yelling because he's being stubborn."

Dee held up two fingers.

"Nope," she said, shaking her head. "All of it."

Dee seemed to think about it for a moment before nodding.

"Thank you."

Dee's mouth quirked into a smile for a moment, but when he turned toward the child in the high chair who had to be his brother—Sammy, Sister Theresa had called him—his expression was stern.

Sammy paid strict attention to his brother, everyone else in the room forgotten.

Dee shook his head slowly and pointed to the broccoli.

Sammy frowned.

The man worried that the youngest wouldn't speak either, but the thought flitted away when the youngest opened his mouth.

"Don't wanna," Sammy complained.

Dee crossed his arms and stared straight at him, unflinching. He looked meaningfully at the food and back to Sammy.

"It's funny. Don't _like_ it."

He shrugged his shoulders, pointed at Sammy's mouth then the food, and crossed his arms again.

Sammy started crying and kicking his legs, throwing a fit, but it didn't seem to phase Dee. He just turned back to the Sister and pointed to the top of the fridge. The Sister seemed confused for a moment before realizing what he meant. She grabbed the candy jar from the top and opened it.

Sammy stopped crying, immediately interested in the candy the Sister was offering Dee. Dee chose a red lollipop and opened it. He turned back to Sammy, not eating it., just keeping it in sight.

"Wan it," Sammy said.

He reached for the candy but Dee pulled it away and shook his head. He pointed to his mouth and to the broccoli on the plate, then ate the lollipop.

Sammy seemed to get on board with that. The broccoli was gone in under a minute. When he finished, Sammy wiped his mouth on his arm and asked, "Canny please?"

Dee shook his head, still sucking in his lollipop.

"You said." Sammy pouted.

Dee touched his eye, shook his head, and pointed to the candy jar which sat on the fridge. The man could decipher it easily. _Criers don't get candy_.

"No fair!"

Dee just shrugged and pointed to the door.

Sammy seemed to perk up at that, the candy situation nearly forgotten. The Sister let him down from his high chair and the two year old ran—waddled really—down the hall and into the room they'd come from. Dee turned back to the Sister and pointed alternatively to the high chair and the candy.

"You know how it works, Dee. He doesn't have enough stars for a candy."

Dee nodded. He took the lollipop out of his mouth and handed it back to the Sister.

"What's this?"

Dee pointed to the high chair and the candy again, but it meant something different than the last time somehow. Dee shook his head and shrugged. The Sister seemed to understand.

"Take it," she said, holding it out to him. "You've earned it."

Dee thought about it, but when he held out his hand, it wasn't to take the lollipop. The man could read the next motions easily. _Keep it. None for Sammy, none for me. Can I play now?_

"Go ahead. I'll put this in the fridge and you and Sammy can share it after dinner, okay?"

Dee smiled at her again and raced back down the hall to find his brother.

"So sweet," his wife said and he had to agree.

"As I said," Sister Theresa said, "the boys are a package deal. You were only looking to adopt the one, though. Correct?"

He looked at his wife and found the same thought he had projected on his face as well. "Actually," he said. "We may just have room for two."

Her blinding smile was enough that he knew he'd said just the right thing. They could give these boys a good home. Dee may have a few problems, especially considering what he'd been through—and despite all they'd heard, he was sure there was much more to the story—but he knew they could deal with it. Family didn't come without its problems and they would take the time to work through them.

"Give it a little bit of time," Sister Theresa said. "Make sure this is what you want. There's no need to be hasty here, especially as I said: this is meant to be permanent. You _will_ be their parents once the adoption goes through, for better or for worse."

The thought gave the man reservations about the adoption, but it was far from enough to have him backing out.

"If you'd like, I can schedule an interview with the boys, have you all get to know each other better?"

The man smiled, relieved. "That would be… just great."

His wife nodded. "And in the meantime, we'll think about it. They seem like good boys, especially Dee. I can already see him as part of the family."

"Both of them," he added. "Sammy's a little rascal, but he looks playful. Should get along perfectly well with my sister's kids." He chuckled fondly.

"Good," Sister Theresa said. "My office is this way. I can give you some paperwork regarding the process and what to expect, as well as schedule the interview."

Inside, Sister Theresa was beaming. They weren't the first couple to spot Dee and express an interest, but they were the first to seriously consider taking the Winchester brothers. After hearing about Dee's brother or his inability to speak or his history, they all seemed to gravitate toward the more well adjusted children. Everyone wanted a child, but no one wanted to start off with a broken one.

This couple, though. They seemed like genuinely good people. They hadn't had much success on the baby front and adoption had seemed like the next best option. They said they didn't care about gender or age—"We'll just _know_," the wife said—and had asked if they could see all of the children.

Yes, they seemed like a good family and if anyone deserved two good parents who were willing to help them through the tough times, it was Dee. What that boy had been through, was still going through, would have been enough to break even an adult. Sister Theresa was sure she wouldn't have been able to handle it had she been put in his shoes, not that he wasn't without his scars. Still… a good family would do well for him. The Winchester boys deserved it. She just prayed her instincts were right and the couple would come back, ready to welcome Dee and Sammy into their family.

* * *

**Three chapters and counting. I'm interested in seeing how the Winchesters grow up. I'm missing the middle chunk right now so the next 2-3 chapters haven't been written yet. When they're done, I'll put them up. Think three days or so before they're finished. Happy holidays, Readers! Read on!**


	4. Home

_John Winchester had nearly broken even, Death noted. Without the burden of raising his boys, the hunter had saved dozens more people than he would have any other way, though he'd inadvertently caused more death than he would have otherwise as well. It was merely the calm before the storm though. Death was sure that his luck wouldn't last very long. Even now, Winchester was growing weary. His nomadic lifestyle was taking its toll. Moving from hunt to hunt wasn't helping much either. He would be less and less successful, more souls taken by his reapers than should be taken._

_It didn't matter so much about John, though. His choices didn't mean much in the grand scheme, except in how they related to his sons._

_The Winchester brothers, though. They were a different set of horses._

_Their destinies were nearly set in stone, never mind that they hadn't grown up as they were meant to. Azazel wouldn't leave them alone. There was too much riding on the boys for the demon to be satisfied with allowing them to lead their lives uninterrupted._

_Dean and Samuel Winchester—the Righteous Man and the Tainted One, the Two Brothers, the True Vessels—they were to be known throughout history as the ones who ended it all. There was no escaping it._

_Well, Death admonished, there were still many decisions to be made that would lead to that point in time. There was a manuscript buried somewhere that allowed them to continue on, avoiding Azazel and angels and the apocalypse. But, sadly, it wasn't a very likely course of action. In the case of the Winchester brothers, free will was merely an illusion._

_True, they had choices, but even in the state they were in now, they were still as self-sacrificing as ever. It would be their—and everyone else's—downfall. They would be responsible for destroying the planet, killing billions of people in the process. It was only a matter of time really._

_Death watched the Winchester brothers grow up in their cookie cutter home._

_It wouldn't be long before they were thrust into the life they had always been meant to lead, but for now, Death was content to sit back and watch the lives they were living._

_When he knew that they were destined to an eternity of unmerited hell, it burdened him to no end. It was uncharted territory for him, knowing that they were to lead these lives, wanting to help, but not being able to. Death didn't normally allow himself to become involved in trifling human affairs, but this time he had and he didn't like it._

_Death would not intervene, he vowed. He was a neutral party. He would, however, take his delight where he could find it. If that meant watching nearly twenty-two years of their mundane family life, he would do it, if only so he could remind himself, once it was all over, that the brothers had been happy once._

* * *

Sammy took off running almost as soon as the front door was open. Dean chased after him, too unsure about the house to let him roam alone. He saw the living room as nothing more than a passing glance before darting into the kitchen, barely keeping Sammy in his sights. The kitchen was smaller than with the Sisters, but it looked a lot easier for him to climb the counters in this one. Dean decided that he liked it less this way. If it was easier for him to climb the counters then that meant Sammy would be able to climb them easier also.

Before he could elaborate more on that thought, Sammy was off again, looking at the downstairs bathroom and running through the small hallway back into the living room where Tammy and Peter—mom and dad, he corrected himself—where _mom and dad_ were waiting at the front door. Both of them were smiling. A lot. Dean didn't think he'd ever seen two people smile so much and they'd been doing it all day.

Sammy darted up the stairs next, peeking behind each of the five doors on the second floor—three bedrooms, a closet, and a restroom—but only settling in the doorway of one. If the bunk beds were any indication, it was their room.

A little of the tension Sammy had been holding leaked right out of him. At least they were sharing. They weren't going to be alone at night. That was good. Sometimes, Sammy knew, Dee had bad dreams. They made him cry at night and when that happened, he liked it for Sammy to cuddle with him. Dee liked humming to him on bad dream nights and Sam liked it too. If they didn't have the same room then who would Dee hum to after he cried?

But that didn't matter now. Sammy and Dee had the same room so there were no more problems.

"I want the up," Sammy said, pointing to the top bunk.

Dee smiled, but shook his head, no.

"Pleeeeesase?" Sammy asked. He knew that when he really wanted something, Dee would give it to him if he asked nice.

Dee shook his head again.

"Why?" Sammy knew that Dee wouldn't tell him no unless it meant something bad, like the once when Dee said no to touching the bee and it bit him.

Dee waited before he answered like he sometimes did if it was hard. When it was just him and Sammy, Dee would talk to him if it got too hard to not talk. Their new Mommy and Daddy were there though and Dee didn't talk when there were other people. Maybe 'cause it was Mommy and Daddy, Dee would talk this time.

Dee didn't though. He found the movements to tell Sammy what he wanted to say and, like he always did, Sammy understood even better than if Dee used words to speak. Sammy thought it was easier to understand Dee. Sometimes when people talked to him, they used too big words and said things that didn't make sense. When Dee talked with not words, there wasn't anything that Sammy couldn't understand. He knew what _things_ were, he just didn't know what the _words_ were.

Dee _wanted_ the top bunk. Really _wanted_ something. It made Sammy smile and nod and he laid his blanket—not blankie, never blankie because that's what babies called their blankets and Sammy was _not _a baby—on his new bed. The down was Sammy's new bed and the up was Dee's because Dee _wanted_ it. Sammy liked when Dee wanted stuff 'cause then he could pretend he was the Big Brother and give things to Dee when he asked. It was fun and he knew why Dee always gave Sammy stuff when he wanted it.

"The up's Dee's and the down's mine," he said proudly to his new Mommy and Daddy.

He never had a Mommy and Daddy before but the Sisters he had said that he would like them. Him and Dee would get a new home and a new Mommy and Daddy and a new room and lots of new things. Sammy was scared when his Sisters told him, but then his Brother told him that he was going too and he could also take his blanket so not _everything_ was going to be new, just some stuff.

He liked it though. His Mommy and Daddy were a nice new. He didn't know if his new house was a nice new or not, but he liked his room and he could share it with Dee too so that was good.

"Well," his Mommy said. "I know you boys are anxious to see the rest of the house, but I'm getting kind of hungry. How about lunch?"

Sammy beamed and nodded. Dee tried to make him eat oatmeal for breakfast, but his tummy was scared at all the new things and he didn't want to eat it. Now he was real hungry. He looked over at Dee who nodded too. That meant that Dee was hungry. Sammy knew Dee didn't eat anything either, but that was 'cause he had crying bad dreams last night and Dee didn't like to eat breakfast after crying bad dreams.

"Yeah," Sammy said. "I want lunch."

He saw Dee's look that meant _manners, Sammy_ and he corrected himself.

"I mean I want lunch, _please_."

His Daddy laughed at that and Sammy didn't know why but it was a nice laugh, not like the ones that made fun. It was like the ones Dee did sometimes when he thought Sammy said something funny. He liked it.

"What do you boys want? Today's special so we can go out or I can make something—whatever you want."

Sammy looked at Dee. Sammy didn't ever pick food before. Sometimes, he could pick a candy or a toy, but not food. They always ate what everyone ate. This was something else new. He wasn't sure he liked it.

Dee looked just as confused as him. That wasn't good. Dee was _never_ confused 'cause Dee was smart and he was bigger and that meant that he was the one who explained stuff to Sammy when Sammy was confused. Dee _couldn't_ be confused because then who would explain stuff to him?

"Hey, it's okay," his Daddy said, kneeling down in front of him. He looked at Dee and him back and forth, talking to both of them. "What do you both like to eat? I'm sure there's something."

"Mac 'n cheese," Sammy said resolutely. He loved mac 'n cheese. He looked at Dee who nodded, but Sammy knew Dee didn't like mac 'n cheese. "No," he said. "Dee don't like it. I know! Pie. Dee likes pie."

"That's not really for lunch," his Mommy said. "How about some real food?"

"But Dee likes pie," Sammy pouted. "Pie _is_ real and it's good for lunch."

His brother touched his shoulder and Sammy looked at him. Dee shook his head, no. Tears sprang to Sammy's eyes. Dee _wanted_ pie. He always wanted pie. But then Dee smiled and made a sandwich of his hands and Sammy knew what he wanted.

"Is hamburgers real food for lunch?"

"Hamburgers sound good, Tamm?" his Daddy asked his Mommy.

"Sounds great. I think we have everything here if you want to explore a little. We need to go later for you to pick out your bedding, but for now do you want to stay in or go out to eat?"

Sammy looked at his brother, but Dee was waiting to see what he wanted. Sammy was looking at for the same thing.

This time, Dee was the one who answered. He thought about it and said to stay. That was good. Maybe if Sammy had good manners, after lunch Dee would let him play on his bed. It was higher than his old bed and it looked fun.

"I'll make lunch here then," his Mommy said. "Why don't you take the boys outside. I'm sure they're going to want to see the backyard."

Sammy and Dee followed their Daddy out the back door from the kitchen that Sammy didn't see before. Now that he knew where it was, he wouldn't forget it. Outside was fun. When it rained there were puddles and they made splashes. His Sisters didn't like it, but him and Dee liked to play in the water.

"Does there get puddles here?" Sammy asked.

"Sometimes," his Daddy said. "When it rains. Do you like puddles?"

Sammy nodded. "I like to jump in 'em."

"They're lots of fun. How about you, Dee?" his Daddy asked. "Do you like puddles?"

Dee thought about it. He nodded, smiling a little.

"Dee likes the small ones 'cause he can see the bottom easy," Sammy said, running out into the yard. He didn't notice Dee still standing next to their Daddy until he turned and had to look around for a missing brother. Dee usually followed real close to him.

"Wanna play ball?" their Daddy asked. "There's a soccer ball in the yard."

Dee shook his head at the same time as Sammy yelled, "yeah!"

It only took two minutes of their Daddy trying to teach Sammy how to kick the ball for Dee to step in.

By the time their new Mommy told them that hamburgers were ready, Dee was learning from his Daddy how to kick the ball on his knees.

* * *

**You know, I have so much trouble with nice, happy scenes. Half of the 'happy' scenes I write, are actually really sad and kind of depressing. It took me DAYS to write the second half of this chapter because I wanted to put something in that was HAPPY, dammit. Not sure if I succeeded or not, but I guess you'll be the judge of that, Readers. Leave me a comment. Let me know what you think :)**

**P.S. Any ideas for more 'happy' scenes? I can definitely use some help here. I have the whole depressing plot line all laid out, but the nice tidbits of how their lives are better now? not so much.**

**Give me a few more days to write the next chapter. I'm going to need the time, trust me. Read on!**


	5. Promises to Keep

Dr. Blake Spencer sat at his desk, a bit more nervous than he though he'd be. He was about to see his first patient since he'd replaced Dr. Harold Brody. Dr. Brody, he was told, had been fired after he was arrested for tax evasion, something that no one seemed surprised over. Apparently, Dr. Brody wasn't a very well-liked man.

Dr. Spencer started his new job three days ago. It had taken him that long to sort through the cases and files in his predecessor's office. Organization was also something that Dr. Spencer and Dr. Brody didn't have in common. The more he learned about the man, the more he felt the need to apologize for him, if only because he was now the doctor's replacement.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Spencer opened the case file on his desk one more time, going over Dr. Brody's notes before his patient was to arrive. He'd always liked children—the only thing, he was sure, that he had in common with Dr. Brody—and wanted to help. The file in front of him was a tough one for his first case, but he was willing to put in the effort. Besides, he thought, things could only get better after him, right?

Spencer looked at the light switch drilled into his desk. Flipping it up would turn on the light in the waiting room, telling the patient that the office was empty and that it was alright to come in. It allowed for discretion, he'd been told, and it made the transition easier to have the entrance and exit on different sides of the room. That was all well and good, but Spencer just couldn't bring himself to flip a light switch to call the child into his office. It made him think of how one might summon a dog. It was too inhuman.

Spencer stood up from his desk and opened the door to the waiting room. Only four people were present: Tamara, Peter, Dean, and Samuel Clark.

Spencer would have been able to tell right away who his patient was even if he hadn't practically memorized the file. Eight year old Dean Clark—previously Dean Winchester, though those files were sealed—had been a ward of the state from ages four to six. He and his younger brother, Samuel, were adopted by Tamara and Peter Clark two years ago this coming February.

None of this information helped him much, except to give him a little background. What really mattered was Dean's inability to adapt to situations, engage in activity, trust others, or come to rely on anyone but himself. According to Tamara and Peter, with whom he'd met the previous day before he'd agreed to take on Dean as a patient, even after two years with him, Dean was stubborn to the thought that he was the only one who could care for his brother.

If anything in his file was true, there were a lot of deep-seated issues for them to plow through, none of which Dr. Brody had even begun to breach.

Tamara and Peter didn't notice Dr. Spencer enter the room, but Dean did. The child looked him over, taking in his glasses, slacks, and sweater vest with keen eyes. He glanced at his hands, looking to see what the doctor was holding, suspicion in his eyes. When it was revealed to be a pen, he moved on, the tightness in his eyes lessoning minutely, but not leaving his face completely. He looked at the bulge of his wallet for a moment before figuring out what it was, then took in the shine of his new loafers and nodded slightly before turning his attention back to his brother, resolutely ignoring the doctor.

Spencer had been standing in the doorway mere seconds while Dean profiled him, digesting everything from hair to shoes and deeming the doctor safe. It was a clear sign of abuse that he'd been able to do it. Not many children had need for a skill like that. Dean was smart, intelligent for his age, hyperaware of his surroundings and, as he could see just from the brief glance, extremely devoted to his brother. It was unhealthy, but it was something that had allowed his mind to keep from splintering off into different pieces while tragedy after tragedy befell him.

Now, though, was a time for healing. Dean was no longer in whatever situation had changed him from a loving and carefree child to this withdrawn and deeply depressed miniature adult. There were going to be some big changes taking place in the coming months. He knew they needed to happen slowly, but there would be changes.

"Dean," he said.

The boy in question looked up at him again, this time with a slight curiosity. It was no wonder others didn't have much of a problem with a silent Dean. His thoughts and emotions were written plainly on his face. With just a few motions, Spencer was sure he'd be able to interpret anything Dean needed.

The boy's parents looked up also. Though their expressions were more guarded, he thought he could read relief in them. That wasn't a good sign.

"Come on. It's show time," Spencer joked, waving at the open doorway.

Dean stood immediately, no hesitation in his step as he walked into the office, though there was one fleeting glance at his brother who sat on the floor, playing with action figures.

The youngest, Spencer noted, seemed to be well adjusted.

Dr. Spencer sat in one of two chairs across the room from his desk and adjusted his glasses. He looked up at his patient. Dean stood a foot away from the opposite chair, glancing at it in a question.

Spencer smiled. "Go ahead, Dean. I don't bite."

Dean took a seat in the too large chair with a blank expression.

Spencer had no doubt that Dean would choose to spend the entire session ignoring him and staring off into space.

"Sammy looked happy, didn't he?"

Dean seemed to perk up at that. He nodded hesitantly when he realized Spencer wanted a real answer.

"Does he like toys like that? I'm sure he got a lot of them for Christmas."

Dean shrugged, then nodded, answering both the question and the statement easily.

"Do you like toys, Dean?"

Dean didn't answer.

"No," he said. "I didn't think you would."

Dean was losing interest fast.

"I think you like sports. Do you play?"

Dean nodded eagerly—well, eagerly for Dean. If it was anyone else, Spencer would have called it a reserved nod. Still, it was progress.

"Do you have fun when you play?"

A shrug. As much of an affirmation as he was going to get.

"Thought you might. Do you play at school?"

No.

"Home?"

Yes.

"With Sammy?"

No. Sammy doesn't like sports.

"That's too bad. I bet he likes watching you though."

Yes.

"I bet Sammy really likes it when he can watch you have fun. I know you like to watch Sammy have fun."

No answer.

On and on the session went. Anything more than one word responses seemed to be beyond Dean at the moment, though Spencer knew that he understood perfectly well. They went through nearly everything in his file, but didn't get much more information than what Dr. Brody and Mr. and Mrs. Clark had provided. He had one last card to play though and he was sure it would pan out.

"I'll make a deal with you, Dean. Interested?" the doctor asked at the end of their session.

Dean looked at him skeptically—as if he'd looked at the doctor any other way since meeting him—but nodded.

"You saw the smile on Sammy's face while he was playing in the waiting room." It wasn't a question. Spencer knew Dean had caught it. He was too tuned into his brother not to have caught it. "Sometime before our next meeting—it doesn't have to be today or even tomorrow, just sometime in the next few days—I want you to watch Sam's face when he watches you play. Here's the deal. If Sammy's smile is bigger when he watches you play than it was when he was playing today, then you have to talk to me for our next session. Real talk, no nodding."

Dean's eyes narrowed.

Spencer leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. "I know you want to make Sammy happy," he said. "But I promise you, Dean, what Sammy needs is for you to be happy too. I'm telling you, when you're happy, Sammy's happy. Do we have a deal?"

Dean's eyes turned contemplative. He raised his chin in a challenge. _And if you lose?_ his expression said.

The kid was smart.

"If I lose the bet, then both of us can be silent for the next meeting. We can just sit quietly for the entire hour until it's time for you to go. No questions, no nothing."

The challenge in his expression disappeared and Dean looked like he was seriously considering taking the deal. When the boy nodded, Spencer found himself smiling.

"Excellent. I need you to keep your word," he said earnestly. "Just like I'll keep mine. It's how we know we can trust each other. Anything I promise you is a real promise. It means that, even if I don't want to do it, I will. Can you keep your promises to me, Dean?"

Dean nodded once, his expression more serious than the doctor had ever seen it. Spencer believed him.

"Good. I've made you two promises today."

Dean looked confused.

"I just promised that, if I lost the bet, our next session would be spent in silence, but I made you one more before that. Do you remember?"

Dean shook his head.

"I promised you that what Sammy needs to be happy is for you to be happy. He needs for you to be happy, Dean."

Dean thought about it for a moment.

"It was very nice meeting you," Spencer said, standing up. "I'm looking forward to talking more with you." He knelt down to Dean's eyelevel and held out his hand for a shake.

Dean looked at the hand distrustfully for a moment, but hesitantly took it, shaking it up and down.

"I'll see you in two weeks."

Dean hopped off of the chair and walked out the exit door. Spencer knew that his presence was already forgotten. Dean had looked pensive there at the end, as if he was seriously considering the truth of what the doctor was saying. That, Spencer new, was an important step in establishing trust.

It wasn't until two weeks later that he discovered the extent of Dean's integrity.

Dr. Spencer stood in the doorway of the waiting room, comfortable now that he'd had a chance to adapt to his new workspace. "Dean," he called.

The boy in question looked up at him, dread and fear in his eyes. He stood slowly and hesitated. Dean looked at his brother for a while, his muscles tense and trembling, and steeled himself to something. When he looked back at Spencer, the doctor saw Dean's resolve take the place of his fear, though his hands continued to shake.

"I promised," Dean said. It was more of a cracked whisper than anything.

Sammy and the Clarks both looked at the boy in shock. Spencer was willing to bet that it was the first time either of the adults had heard his voice. A slow smile spread across the mother's face as she looked at the doctor. The father was floundering openly at hearing what he'd obviously never thought possible. What surprised him the most though was Sam's reaction. After the initial surprise of hearing his brother speak openly, he flung his arms around Dean and whispered something so low that Spencer couldn't hear it.

"I promised," Dean said again. Whether he was just restating the previous or answering his brother, he didn't know.

The doctor smiled. "So did I. Come on," he said, waving his arm toward the open doorway. "Let's talk."

Dean nodded, but then caught himself. He smiled sheepishly at the slip. "Okay," he croaked. No more nodding, he'd promised. Real talk this time.

* * *

**Wrote this during a layover, in a tiny airport that looks like it can barely house a single plane, in the middle of nowhere, like twenty minutes ago. Thank you Souless666 for suggesting I write this scene. Unfortunately, what came out didn't do the suggestion justice. There are so many words I can use to convey my thoughts, but I'll be the first to admit that I'm not always the best at using them. Chapter 6 coming soon. So far, I have twelve chapters written. I'm probably going to stop between 15-20? The question mark stays until I'm finished completely with the fic. Until then, Fearless Readers, read on!**


	6. Happy Birthday!

"…happy birthday dear Saaaaaaammmmmmyyyyyy, happy birthday to youuuuu!"

Sammy blew out the eight candles on his birthday cake and everyone cheered and clapped. His mom took a picture like she always did. The next day, after all the party mess had been cleaned up, her and Sammy were going to go to the store like they always did and get the pictures developed. Then, like always, he would write his name and his age on the back and put it in his birthday book. There would be just enough room below the picture for him to write one sentence: his 'nine year old goal' just like last year, except one year older.

His eight year old goal was to learn how to ride a bike. Dean helped him with that last summer and now he could ride without training wheels so he couldn't write that again. This year… he didn't know what his goal should be.

"Whatcha thinkin about, Sammy?" Abby asked from right next to him. He didn't even realize she was there.

"Nothing," he said. "Just thinking about what I wanna do before I'm nine."

"Oh."

"Who wants cake?" Sammy's mom called and the short conversation was over. The hands of a dozen children flew up almost immediately, Sammy's included. His cut of cake was devoured in seconds, his presents were opened in a flurry of activity, and he and his friends ran around the yard, playing freeze tag.

"I don't know how you do it, Tammy. I'd go crazy with so many kids in my house."

Tammy laughed. "I was going to just have Sammy invite a few friends for laser tag or mini golf or something, but he insisted on having a barbeque instead. He said he didn't want to leave anyone out."

"That's so sweet. He really takes after his brother, doesn't he?"

"I swear, they have a complex," Tammy said, rolling her eyes. "Did I ever tell you about the time Sammy found the squirrel?"

"The one that he thought was choking?"

"The very same. The look on his face when he brought it to Dean… but it was nothing compared to Dean trying to give it the Heimlich," she said in between chortles.

"I'm surprised the squirrel survived."

"Honest to God, Sarah, I think those boys saved it's life. It kept coming back, you know."

"Really."

Tammy nodded.

"Mom?" Sammy called.

Tammy turned her attention to him.

"Where's Dean?"

"I don't know," she said, peering around the yard, looking for her eldest.

"I think I saw him go inside," Sarah said.

"I look for him," Tammy told Sammy. "Go play with your friends."

Sammy nodded and took off running, trying to unfreeze one of his friends, but getting touched himself.

"You mind keeping an eye on the crumb snatchers?" Tammy asked Sarah.

"No problemo."

"And the men. I swear, give Peter meat and some tongs and he goes nuts."

Sarah chuckled.

"Just make sure he doesn't set fire to the yard," she sighed.

"Will do."

She walked inside, glancing through the kitchen before making her way upstairs. She'd noticed Dean acting a little withdrawn earlier, but she didn't know what to make of it. It had taken a while—years, actually—to get to a point where Dean could open up to her. It was a slow going process, but it was getting easier for him. All she needed to do now was ask… after she found him.

Tammy walked upstairs, peeking into the bathroom before making her way to Dean's room. He used to share a room with Sammy, but Peter—with Spencer's approval—had insisted on giving each of them their own spaces. They needed to separate themselves a bit, especially Dean. He only used it for two things though: to sleep and to escape. Tammy guessed this was a case of the latter.

"Dean?" she called softly as she opened his door. She saw him lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He glanced at her when she came closer, but didn't say a word before he went back to studying the ceiling.

Tammy sighed. She sat at the head of his bed and ran her fingers through his hair, waiting. Dean would know what she wanted.

"What happened?" she asked him

Dean didn't answer.

"Come on, Dean."

"Nothing happened," he said. "Sammy just turned eight."

"And?"

"And I didn't need any help with stuff when I was eight. What if Sammy doesn't need help either?"

They both sat in silence for a moment, thinking about what he'd said. Tammy could see how that would be a problem in Dean's mind. He basically lived to help his brother. Taking that away?

"What if he doesn't need me anymore?" Dean asked.

Tammy didn't know what to say. "Sammy's different from you," she started slowly. "I think he'll still need his big brother for a while yet."

"Yeah," Dean said, not sounding convinced. "But he's not going to need me forever. He's going to grow up and what then?"

"I don't know," Tammy said, still stroking his hair. "Would that be so bad?"

She watched the wheels turn in his head before he nodded. "Yeah," he whispered. "It would be."

"I don't think so," she said, matching his tone. "Because when that day comes and Sammy doesn't need you to teach him things anymore, that means that you've taught him everything he needs to know."

Dean nodded, but continued staring up at the ceiling.

"Sammy was looking for you," she said. "I think he wanted you to play tag with him."

"Yeah." Dean rolled out of bed and trotted downstairs, still looking conflicted.

"That's some good advice, you know," Peter said from the doorway. She hadn't even noticed him come up. "I'll make sure to use it when we send the boys off to college."

Tammy smiled and walked over to him. "Nope," she said playfully. "I laid claim, it's mine."

"And you're mine, so that makes it mine also." Peter leaned down and pecked her cheek. "Come on, Sarah's talking Jeff's ear off downstairs. I'm sure he could use a break."

"Yeah, she does that," Tammy chuckled, following him.

The backyard was just as she'd left it. Sarah was, in fact, talking Jeff's ear off. Tammy smiled at the tortured look on the man's face before stepping in with a save. "Sarah," she called.

She watched Sarah excuse herself and make her way over. Jeff's relief obviously amused Peter if the hearty chuckle was any indication. The guys went back to the grill, chatting about who knows what and Sarah came over to do the same. Most of the conversation was easily tuned out while Tammy watched the kids play, but she caught a few snippets here and there, preferring to nod and smile than to actually contribute to the conversation.

"…Dean?"

"What?" Tammy asked.

Maybe she hadn't been playing as close attention as she thought she'd been. She caught Sarah's bemused expression and knew she'd been caught.

Tammy smiled sheepishly. Sarah grinned and she knew she was forgiven.

"I said, what happened with Dean? You guys were inside for a while."

"Yeah, we had a talk. Dean's having some trouble. Nothing I couldn't handle."

Sarah took the hint and changed topics of conversation. She may speak for endless lengths of time, and about anything and everything she could think of, but she knew when a subject wasn't ready to be broached.

"Well, Sammy looks happy. There was a nice turnout to this party. What did you do, invite the whole class?"

"We did actually."

"No way!"

Tammy nodded. "I told you, Sammy didn't want to leave anyone out."

"That's just… wow."

"Yeah, Peter didn't think it was such a good idea either." She chuckled. "But we're making it work."

Tammy watched the children play, happy to see the smile on Dean's face as he showed Sammy how to slide further in the grass so he could unfreeze his friends faster. The lesson was interrupted by a rampaging child, obviously 'it,' trying to freeze them. Dean turned to block him while Sammy took off running straight at one of his frozen friends. Dean was tagged, but took it good-naturedly. He parted his legs and froze that way, keeping track of Sammy.

Sammy ran as fast as his legs could propel him. He dipped down nearly parallel to the ground, sliding quickly under a frozen teammate. He was back on his feet and running before his friend even had time to comprehend that he was now free to move.

Sammy went back for Dean next, sliding easily between his legs. When Sammy stood, they opted for a high five, Dean's smile stretched wide across his face.

"Hey, Dean!" his dad called from the grill. "Wanna help with the burgers? I'll teach you how to flip them."

Dean ruffled Sammy's hair and trotted over to help with the food.

Dean gone, Sammy showed his friends to slide like Dean taught him. He tucked his arms close to his body and showed them how to twist while they were down so they could stand faster. He explained when the best time to duck down was and told them to make sure no one was in the way first so no one got hurt.

While he was explaining, Sammy suddenly knew what his nine year old goal was. Dean was always teaching him everything. Always. Sammy couldn't think of anything he knew that Dean didn't teach him. Dean even taught him his ABCs and how to read before he ever started school. He taught him how to ride his bike, how to make his bed, how to fix his toy cars when their wheels came off. Whenever Sammy had a problem, Dean taught him how to fix it.

That night, after his birthday picture was developed and placed in his birthday book, after he'd scribbled his name and age on the back, after he glued it inside, Sammy picked out a pen from the drawer and wrote four words: Teach something to Dean.

* * *

**A big thank you to LeeMarieJack and "trained to kill" for the idea of writing the boys' birthdays. It was originally supposed to be Dean's, but I had trouble imagining him enjoying his own party so I switched it to Sam's. I have to say that I'm not as disappointed in this chapter as I thought I was going to be because of the switch, but let me know what you think, Fearless Readers. Smiles are just a comment away :)**

**Chapter seven will be up as soon as it's written. After the next chapter, the rest is pretty much finished and ready to post so updates will come more quickly. Read on!**


	7. Prom Night

"What time are you picking her up?"

"Four."

"And you already met her parents?"

"Yep."

"They liked you?"

"Yes, Ma."

"Is Jamie going?"

"We're picking up him and Rachael on the way."

"Can your car fit that many people?"

"There's only the four of us."

"Really? I thought there were more."

"Nope."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"I don't like you driving that car at night. It's not safe."

"It's safer than half of the other cars on the road. I fixed it up myself."

"That's what makes me worry."

"Mom."

"I know, I know. Jack went over it and deemed it safe. Doesn't mean I'm not going to worry about you. Especially since you'll be out so late. Just wear your seatbelt in case you get into an accident. And tell Jamie and his date also. You know he won't unless you ask. And make sure you get pictures."

"Mom."

" I know, you're a teenager and don't care about that stuff, but if you don't, you'll regret it in the future. Plus, I want to see how handsome you are with your date. What's her name again? Amber. I think. Either way, I want pictures."

"Mom."

"And I know how these things go. I was young once too, you know. Just please promise me that you won't do anything you shouldn't. If you're drinking, don't drive and you know that you don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, right?"

"Mom! I'll be fine. Dad already covered most of that stuff and it's just a dance. Not a big deal."

"Don't let Amber hear you say that. It's the prom! Of course it's a big deal. Just... be safe. Okay?"

"Okay. I have to have Amber home before one so I'll be home after that."

"You have your cell phone?"

"Yep."

"Wallet? Keys? Do you have money for dinner?"

"Mom."

"Sorry."

"It'll be fine."

"I know. And have fun. This night only happens once."

"I will."

"Not too much fun."

"Mom."

"I love you. You'll be home before two?"

"You're going to be one of those clichéd parents who waits up on the couch, aren't you?"

"No."

"Good."

"Your dad is."

"Of course. I'll be home by two. And try to get him to sleep at a decent time. He has work in the morning."

"I will."

"Oh, and Sam needs to get picked up at the library by six. He's finishing his history essay."

"Okay. Six o'clock. Pick up Sam from the library."

"Because at seven, he needs to get dropped off at Hector's. They got a new computer and he's supposed to help set it up for them."

"Okay."

"And he has to be home by nine because that's when grandma said she's be home to talk to him about coming out for the summer. So make sure he calls her."

"Dean."

"After nine, but before ten because she needs to wake up early for some swim aerobics thing. And when they figure out a time, write a note so he can put it in his planner. Oh, and don't forget to check his backpack to make sure he has everything he needs. He sometimes forgets to take the right homework in."

"Dean."

"And remind him that he needs to take his textbooks in tomorrow to return them. If he doesn't, we have to pay the late fee."

"Dean! We'll be fine for the night. Just have fun. I have things covered here."

"Are you sure?"

"Dean."

"Sorry."

"Just have a good time. Do you have the corsage?"

"Yeah. Right here."

"Good. I'll see you in the morning."

"I'll try not to wake Dad when I come home."

"No, wake him up and send him to bed. You know how rough the couch is on his back."

"Old man."

"Hey! I'm not that old!"

"Whatever you say, honey. Didn't hear you come in."

"It's 'cause I'm still so spry. Quit your snickering, Dee. You're going to be old someday. Back problems and all."

"Not gonna happen."

"Of course he won't, Peter. Oh, to be young."

"Have fun at the dance, bud. Tell your girl we said hi."

"I will. Bye Dad. Ma."

"Oh, no you don't. You're not leaving without a hug."

"Ma!"

"Who's laughing now, mama's boy?"

"Can it, Peter. It's a big night for him."

"I know, I know. Love you, Dee. Have a good time, alright?"

"I will. Love you. And try to get some sleep."

"Yeah, yeah."

"I'm serious, Dad."

"I know you are. Go. You're gonna be late."

* * *

**Okay, so... I decided to try something different with this chapter: dialogue only. It was easy for me to follow since I was the one who wrote it, but let me know what you think, Readers. Was it too confusing? If so, I'll probably go and fill in the blanks before I publish the next chapter. Read on!**

**P.S. I've been trying to add this chapter all day. Unfortunately, I wasn't even able to access my account until like 5 minutes ago. Next chapter to come this Wednesday, Fearless Readers. Don't forget to review :)**


	8. Walk Away

**Okay, so, remember that whole ****_I'll post Wednesday_**** thing? Total lie. Two more chapters just for you, Fearless Readers. **

* * *

Two floors, three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, one kitchen, one living room, and a garage later, Dean still couldn't find his phone. He knew he had it yesterday during his session with Spencer, but after that? He didn't know. He _thought _ he'd put it back in his pocket. That didn't always mean much.

"You find it?" his mom called down from upstairs.

"No," he yelled back. "I think I might have left it at Spencer's."

"I'll give him a call," she said, coming into view over the banister. "You and Sammy need to get out of here. You're going to be late enough as it is."

"It's Sam," Sam corrected. He came from behind her and flew down the stairs toward Dean.

Dean tried ruffling his hair, but the kid was quick. He dodged the attempt easily and Dean marveled at how much his brother had shot up in the last year. At thirteen, he'd still been a runt that looked all of ten, but now at fourteen, he was nearly as tall as Dean and he was growing into his gangly limbs.

"Whatever you say, Sammy," Dean half-mocked. He grabbed the keys from the tray by the front door, tossed his backpack over his shoulder, and left, calling "bye, Ma!" behind him.

Sam rolled his eyes and followed his brother. They went to the same school now so Dean usually gave him a ride. It gave Sam big time brownie points with the girls at school that he knew Dean—Dean who played every sport known to man and still had time to flirt with any girl in sight; yeah, that Dean—and that Dean seemed to know him, too. No one believed they were really brothers. Everyone knew they were adopted, and they weren't ashamed of it, but they didn't look similar enough for anyone to believe they were blood brothers. They knew, though. Sam had sent in for a DNA test years ago and, sure enough, they were related.

It sucked, in his opinion, constantly being compared to Dean. Then again, if there was ever anyone he would want to be compared with, it was his brother, not that he was going to tell Dean that. He was haughty enough without Sam fueling his ego. If anything, Sam wanted to knock him down a peg.

"Kinda quiet there, Sammy," Dean said smirking. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"The usual. World domination and whatnot," he quipped absentmindedly, not paying much attention to anything but the trees passing by in a blur.

"Bit young, don't you think?"

Sam just shrugged.

He had bigger things on his mind than making small talk with his brother. Finals were next week and he still had papers to finish for history and English. Both were due in two days, not that he hadn't been researching for weeks already, but it wasn't _his _paper that he was worried about. Jake Fuller was expecting both essays from Sam today. He knew it wasn't going to be pretty, but he was even more stubborn than Dean when he believed in something enough. It wasn't Sam's fault Jake thought he could push him into finishing them for him. Sam was still scrawny despite his height and Jake had forty more pounds of muscle on him at the very least, but Sam wasn't going to back down from this. If Dean couldn't muscle his way to an A+ paper from Sam, Jake sure as hell couldn't.

Still, he wasn't looking for the retaliation that was obviously going to take place in a few hours time. Dean could take him easily. He'd been fighting for years. Tae Kwon Do and Krav Maga trophies—Sam didn't even know how Dean had convinced his parents to let him join the last team—took up so much shelf space at one point that they'd had to store them in a box in the garage. Football, lacrosse, wrestling, swim, track, and baseball were added over the years. Dean's grades never strayed lower than a C, but they hardly rose above it either.

Sam was more of a mathletes kind of guy.

After realizing Dean's aptitude for martial arts, they tried to get him to join, but he was much more content with his nose in a book. Besides, he bruised easily.

So yeah. Sam could ask Dean for help. Hell, all he'd really need to do was tell Dean the situation and there would be no doubt as to who would be sporting the bruises the next day. But Sam wouldn't do that.

It wasn't pride, he told himself. It was his problem and he needed to deal with it. Dean had been taking care of him his entire life, never stopped for any reason. It was time that Sam took care of his own problems instead of always relying of Dean to solve them. Dean had enough on his plate with college applications and working at Ralph's Auto Body Shop in his spare time. Between school, sports, and his job—which, admittedly, he was only able to squeeze in for a few hours a week—Dean didn't have the time to look after Sam.

Dean did, though, more than Sam would ever realize. _Take care of Sammy_ had become more than just an order to him, spoken by a man he couldn't even put a face to. It became the core of everything he did. Spencer had done a lot for him over the years, but Dean wouldn't let go of his protectiveness. Sammy was _his brother_ and he would walk through burning coals before he let the kid get hurt. Dean knew it wasn't healthy, but he didn't happen to really care much about that. Sammy was alright so why did anything else matter?

He'd received letters from Florida State, Alabama, and Stanford, but he'd already decided to turn them down. He needed to stay as close to Chicago as he could. His mom could definitely use the help around. Their dad had been deployed for three months already and he wasn't expected home for a while. Even then, he'd said he would probably only have a couple of months shore leave before he was deployed again.

Sammy was having trouble in school. His mom needed help around the house. There were countless other reasons he used to convince himself, but those were the main two. He _couldn't_ leave. There were too many things that could happen to them with him gone. If Sammy hadn't steadfastly refused to learn to defend himself, Dean would have been at least a little okay with leaving, but the runt never even made it past the basic self-defense classes.

So, no. Dean couldn't leave. Sammy needed him for a little while longer—at least until he finished high school. Dean could easily work full-time at the shop. Fixing up cars was more than a hobby to him. There was this guy who passed through town every few months or so who would stop by so Dean could tune his car. He'd chat nonstop about everything and nothing, talking about the things he'd seen—_the world's biggest ball of twine, twice!—_in his travels. Had a nice car too. Dean could appreciate a classic, even if it was a little beaten up.

It became his dream car. More than that, it became a promise to himself. Spencer was always telling him that he needed to have a goal that was separate from his family, from his brother. 'Keep Sammy safe' was the core of everything he did, but there would come a time, Spencer said, when Sammy wouldn't need him anymore and Dean needed to prepare for when that happened.

It hadn't happened yet, but Dean could feel the time crunch. Sammy didn't want to rely on him anymore, he was becoming independent. Dean wouldn't do anything to interrupt that.

So Dean did as Spencer suggested: he set a goal.

It was more of a dream really. He didn't want the life his parents offered, despite their insistence of the contrary. He didn't want the college life and the corporate job and the trophy wife. What he wanted was something completely different, probably unrealistic in their eyes.

It was like a scene in his head. He pulled it from the deep recesses of his mind during his darkest days, which there were plenty of in the fall when the nightmares increased. It was a simple dream, but one that Spencer had tried to encourage up to a certain point. He worried that Dean wanted to run, but Dean assured him that it was more than that. Sometimes he pictured his mom or dad or Sammy in the passenger seat, but it was the first time he had something that was for wasn't for them. This dream was his.

Dean pulled into the parking lot quickly, turning off the Tahoe and pulling the scene to the forefront of his mind for a brief moment before Sammy noticed him stalling. For a split second, everything disappeared but him but an open stretch of two-lane asphalt, and his baby—a black, four door '67 Chevy Impala. There wasn't a destination in mind, just the _keep moving, don't stop_ pull of the road.

He pushed it back and waved his arms in front of Sammy who seemed unusually quiet this morning. Dean knew something was wrong, but it had been a while since Sammy would confide in him about these sorts of things.

"Sammy, hey. Earth to Sammy!" Dean shook his shoulder.

"What?"

"We're here." Dean nodded out the windshield and Sammy looked, shocked at the parked cars around him.

Dean watched Sammy unhook his belt and take off without so much as a glance behind him. Dean sighed and left, pocketing his keys and heading toward the locker room for his first class. From there it was English, then chemistry. The history teacher stopped him on the way out of his fourth period and congratulated him on the team's big win.

It was during lunch that that he felt a tap on his shoulder. Normally, Derek stayed clear of Dean and the jocks, but when Dean turned around, there he was.

"What's up Derek?"

"Uh, just wanted to let you know that Fuller has it out for Sam."

Dean's expression turned to stone and when he asked, "What happened?" shivers crawled down Derek's spine.

"Fuller told Sam to finish his term papers, but he didn't, and now he's pissed 'cause he's going to fail this semester and won't be able to go out for lacrosse in the spring and Jenny, Mike's sister, told my sister, Meagan, that she heard Fuller tell Robinson that Sam was 'dead meat.'" Derek finished his short rant, shivering again at Dean's expression.

"Have you seen Fuller around?" Dean asked.

Derek shook his head. "No. Sam's in geography though. He had lunch in the rotation before you so he's good for now."

"Thanks, Derek."

It was a dismissal if Derek had ever heard one. He was perfectly content to end the conversation there and leave. Dean was cool most of the time—totally an older brother to envy in Derek's eyes—but he was intense sometimes, especially when it came to Sam. He was more overprotective than his mother, and that was saying something.

Dean wasn't even paying attention to Derek's hasty retreat. He scanned the lunch room quickly, not catching Fuller anywhere. His rotation today should have coincided with Dean's, but he hadn't seen him all day. Dean asked around a bit, but no one could find the guy. The lunch bell rang and Dean walked to his Latin class, keeping an eye out for Fuller on the way. There was no sign of him through it or his last period algebra 2.

What he saw going back to his car, on the other hand, had him stone-faced sober. Sammy stood at the passenger door of the Tahoe, leaning as nonchalantly as possible despite the peppered bruises and swollen eye. A butterfly bandage held together a cut on his forehead, but Dean could see the blood drips on his light t-shirt.

"Dean, it's fine," Sam started at his brother's expression, but Dean wasn't even listening. Sam watched as he walked calmly around the car, sat in the driver's seat, and started the engine. Sam sighed and got in before Dean left without him. It wouldn't be the first time.

Dean drove Sam home, neither one of them bothering with a half-hearted attempt at conversation. If it wasn't for Dean's knuckles clenched white over the steering wheel, Sam wouldn't have known anything was wrong. Dean's face was passive, almost bored really. He knew Dean, though, so he knew that Dean was furious. If anything, Sam was happy that Dean had merely opted to drive home instead of seeking out Fuller. He flinched at the mental image of what Dean could do to the jock. It would make Sam's beating seem like child's play.

Dean pulled into the driveway, turning off the engine. Instead of driving to the garage like he normally did on Wednesdays, Dean followed Sam into the house. He didn't wait for their mother's shocked gasp and the myriad of questions that were sure to follow. He bolted instead to the upstairs bathroom, locking himself inside. His hands automatically found the small bottle of pills he kept in the back of the cabinet for occasions such as these. It didn't happen often, but it was better in recent years after he'd developed a sense of self-control.

His anger now, as Spencer would be telling him, was hot. Hot anger was self-destructive and could hurt everyone around him, no matter who it was.

_Walk away, walk away, walk away._

It didn't matter that he was miles now from the prick who'd put his hands on Sammy. He kept up the chant in his head, repeating it over and over as he filled a glass of water and took the pills. Too late, he knew. It had taken almost twenty minutes to make it home and it would be another fifteen before they kicked in. He could feel it creeping up on him. It started as a tensing of his neck as shivers crawled down his back. His eyes were dry and his mouth even more so despite the glass of water he just had. His neck twitched abruptly, causing a loud _pop_ as the joint moved unexpectedly.

He unlocked the door—another of Spencer's rules, drilled repeatedly into his head—just in case he blacked out and someone needed to get to him. Dean sat on the toilet seat, trying his best to control his breathing. It was harder than it should be for him to perform an action he normally wasn't even conscious of. Large breaths in and out were making his head spin, but anything less wouldn't give him the air he needed. His lungs were dying, his chest hurt, his vision blurred and he panicked because of it.

_It's normal. The deep—_walk away—_breathing is sending too much oxygen to—_walk away my fault—_my head and it's making me lightheaded. I _know_ this. Calm down—_walk my fault away walk away—_breathe normal. You can _do_ this! _—my fault.

He couldn't. Dean's lungs expanded faster and faster, out of his control now despite his training. He was hyperventilating and he knew it, but he was powerless to stop it. The more he tried to control it, the worse it got. After a while, his breathing evened out on its own as he fell, barely catching himself on his arms and lowering himself to the ground.


	9. Nightmare

_Two hundred seventy-four._

_Death watched and, as he always did, he counted. He viewed the world sans two hundred seventy-four souls who should have been walking the earth. This was merely the average. If he wanted to complicate things, he would have the numbers in three columns: those were dead who should have been alive, those who alive who should have been dead, and then the average between the two._

_In all actuality, Death didn't particularly care who owned the souls. It was the soul itself that was important, which is why he counted by the average. His reapers had taken two-hundred seventy-four more souls than they would have if things had gone according to plan. _

_It was nice, though, seeing the Winchesters in this life. For one who was nearly as old as time itself, he looked forward to meeting those who would make their mark on the universe. The Winchester brothers were two such people, though they seemed rather normal now. Death wondered what was so special about these two boys that the fate of this entire planet depended on their choices almost exclusively. _

_Even now, the eldest was unconscious while his brother was in the kitchen having the abrasions on his face cleansed. They did not seem up to the challenges that awaited them. They were not hunters. They knew nothing of the supernatural, thanks to their father. They were not prepared as thoroughly as they should have been. The future would surely be as bleak as the scripts claimed. Their decisions would even reach as far as to affect Death himself. _

_They were truly remarkable souls. _

_Death gripped his cane tighter, holding himself back. Both brothers were injured—injured in different ways, but injured nonetheless—and neither was prepared for what was to come, but this was not Death's fight. He'd made a vow and he would stick by it, even if everything in him wanted nothing more than to reach through the sands of time and change their fate. There was only one good ending to this story, and, unfortunately for the brothers, those decisions had long since passed, leaving them with nothing to look forward to but what would be a burning wasteland of their home. _

* * *

_MOMMY!_

_"Dean," she whispers. _

_How did she get there? She never did this before. Stop playing Mommy, it's not funny. Get down from there. That's what she says when I'm not s'posed to be on the counter. Get down from there. But Mommy's not listening. She can't listen like I can 'cause the fire's real loud and it's too close. It's gonna burn. I know that 'cause of when Tommy and me roasted marshmallows outside in his fire pit with his dad. Fire burns and Mommy's too close and she's going to burn too. And burns _hurt_. But Mommy's already hurt bad like when I fell offa my bike when the training wheels came off only there's lots more red than when I was hurt. The red's dripping lots and I can see it drip on Sammy. _

_Get down from there, Mommy. _

_Mommy doesn't listen but I can hear her whispering "Dean," so maybe she can hear me too. _

_I can't talk 'cause, when I look at Mommy, her hair is already getting burned by the fire. I want to giggle, but cry too 'cause the fire looks like her hair now, but I know it hurts bad and she's scared. I didn't know Mommy could be scared. I can be scared though and I am 'cause my heart's pounding—_thuthump, thuthump, thuthump—_real hard and it's hard to breathe now. _

_So I run. I run to where it's safe, where it's always safe. I stand in the door to Daddy's room 'cause I hafta see even if I'm scared. Four is big, but I close my eyes anyway. And when I look Daddy's really close to me like magic. He was in Sammy's room and now he isn't. Maybe Daddy can abracadabra Mommy offa the roof and then we can stop her hurt. _

_"Daddy!" I yell to tell him to help, but he starts talking fast. _

_"Take your brother outside as fast as you can," he says and he gives me Sammy. There's drips on his mouth that I know is Mommy's red and Sammy's crying real loud so I can't say anything either. "Don't look back!"_

_I can't run with Sammy. He's heavy and moving and I'm scared and Mommy's on the roof and she's real hurt, but Daddy doesn't care 'cause he keeps yelling, telling me to go, now. So I do what I know I should have done before. I listen. I'm always s'posed to listen to Daddy, specially when it's a emergency. If I listened before, Mommy woulda got down from the roof and her red would be inside like it's s'posed to be and Sammy wouldn't be crying loud and I wouldn't hafta listen to Daddy call Mommy's other name over and over sounding real scared like Mommy did. _

_Is Daddy on the roof now? I hope not 'cause there's lots of fire there and he could get hurt too. _

_I make it outside quick quick and I'm safe in the grass. "It's okay, Sammy," I tell him and then I'm flying in the air when Daddy picks us up. The windows make a crash and I think that I'm going to be on fire 'cause I can feel it now and it's real hot, but the fire stays inside. Daddy takes me and Sammy 'cross the street, but I watch the door, waiting for Mommy…_

* * *

When Dean regained consciousness, it was with a sudden start. He was completely awake before even a second had passed and was on his feet a few moments later. There was no moment of disorientation, no dulling of his anger, no lessoning of the thoughts pounding into his head—_walk away, my fault, protect Sammy, walk away, walk away, Sammy, walk away, my fault, protect Sammy, my, walk away, fault, away, Sammy_.

Dean's anger was still hot, destructive, bad. He needed to move.

Dean bolted out of the house, happy that he didn't pass anyone on his way out. He headed straight for the tree line that bordered their backyard and didn't stop until he was far enough away that no one could hear him.

He yelled, screamed into the thick trees, giving the pent up frustration an outlet. It wasn't enough. He grabbed a fallen branch and swung it rhythmically against the heavy trunk of the neatest tree, using all of his excess energy. The branch broke before he did and, when it was nothing more than a pile of large splinters, Dean grabbed another and repeated the process.

He was there for an hour before he felt his resolve wane. He was panting and sweating and tired beyond belief. The tree that bore the brunt of his attacks stood unharmed before him and it was that sight that caused Dean to drop the branch.

He was still angry alright, but not at Fuller anymore. The guy was an idiot—a strong idiot—but an idiot nonetheless. Principal Morrigan would suspend or expel him and he would be taken off of the school sports teams indefinitely, especially after the coaches caught wind of what he'd done to Sammy.

Sam may not have been part of the team, but he was family. He came to every game, cheered them all on, even helped tutor a few of Dean's teammates when their grades were less than adequate. He was a good kid and teachers and coaches alike couldn't help but agree that Dean's protectiveness was contagious.

Fuller didn't warrant any of Dean's anger. He was old news, stricken from his mind even before Dean had collapsed in the bathroom.

Dean, on the other hand, should have done more to protect Sammy. He'd been given more opportunities than he should have had to help him. Sam had obviously known this was coming with the way he'd been acting that morning, then there was Derek's talk. He'd had plenty of time that day to stop Fuller before he'd gotten to Sam. It was Dean's failure.

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Now, Dean, go!_

_Take care of Sammy. _

_Protect your brother._

It had been drilled into his head over and over. Protect Sammy. It was his only job and he went and screwed it all up. This wasn't the first time either. It seemed as if his life was a constant state of disappointment. Spencer, his parents, even Sam, they were always bent on telling him that it wasn't his responsibility, but it _was _and why couldn't they see that? Sammy was _his_ _brother_.

Dean heard the heavy footsteps even before he saw who made them. As Sam came into view, Dean was grateful at least that he wasn't lost in a rage like he'd been just minutes before. Had Sam waited until he was done before approaching? Or was it just good timing? Dean didn't know and for his own sake, he hoped Sam wouldn't tell him.

"Ma's looking for you," Sam said.

Dean nodded. He figured that she would be. By now, one of his coaches would have called to inform her of his no show.

"He was expelled you know."

Dean knew.

"Amy got the vice principal before Jake could get in more than a few hits. He's not even allowed to come back to get his stuff. They're sending everything home with Ralph."

Ralph Fuller, Jake's older brother. The senior wasn't as big of an ass, though they definitely had similar traits. Dean was happy the guy wouldn't be back. While he wasn't angry with Jake, he probably wouldn't have been able to keep from punching the guy if given the opportunity.

"Sorry, Dee," Sam said, shooting his puppy dog eyes at his brother.

What the hell did the kid have to be sorry for? _Letting _himself get beat up? Dean rolled his eyes and flung his arm over Sammy's shoulder.

"Come on," Sam said. "Ma called Spencer. I'm sure you're in for an earful."

Dean groaned, but followed Sam anyway back to the house. It was a long walk, longer than he remembered when he was running before, but it was easier this time without the blinding rage taking hold of him.

He didn't kid himself. Dean was still angry. This time, though, it wasn't an all-consuming, destructive anger. It was a cold, calculating anger that he'd learned to live with his entire life. He was angry, but it was under his tight control and not a single tendril would escape him unless he wanted it to. With this anger, there was no chance of it hurting anyone that Dean didn't want it to hurt. The problem now was that there was no outlet for it, no way to let it go.

* * *

**I wasn't planning on including these two chapters in the story. I actually cut them out and pasted them in a seperate doc. labeled: DeletedCH_DeathCounted1, but then my friend (yes, Kristi, it's you this time) said that I should reconsider cutting them. I did as she asked and decided what the hell, can't hurt. The next chapter will still be posted tomorrow. Don't forget to review, Readers. I love reading them, especially the predictions on what you all think is going to happen. Read on!**


	10. Accepted

Sam didn't know what to do. He sat on his bed and just… stopped. It wasn't that he wasn't happy. He was ecstatic, wanted to jump up sporting the '80s air fist, rush downstairs and twirl his mom around, call Dean up on the phone and laugh with him about things going right for once.

What he did was another matter entirely: he thought.

He was _seventeen_ for crying out loud. He didn't know how to live out on his own. And what about Dean? He'd be pissed, Sam knew. Well, he'd be happy for Sam first, guilty for some reason no one would be able to understand second, and _then_ he'd be pissed that he couldn't follow Sam to California—halfway across the country—to protect him. It was something his parents—well, just his mom now—hoped Dean would grow out of, but if anything, it was worse now that he was out of the house.

Sam didn't mind too much that Dean was so overprotective. It had always been that way, but now he had to leave Dean behind. Could he do it?

And what about his mom? Since Dad, she hadn't been doing too well. It was hard on all of them, truth be told, but she'd taken it the hardest. And then Dean had left. Sure, he was back now, but it wasn't easy with just the two of them in the house. And now he was going to leave? Mom would be home alone. Dean would visit, but he was an adult now, thinking about moving in with Amber. They'd been getting pretty serious. What would Mom do? Dad gone, Dean gone, Sam gone.

Sam remembered what it was like when Dean had lost everyone—and that was when he still had Sam. What would it do to his mom to lose everyone?

Sam took some semblance of comfort in knowing that it would be nearly impossible to pay to go to the college of his choice. Being stuck at the University of Illinois was hardly that worst thing that could happen to him. At least that way, his tuition would be paid by the military. They already had money problems as it was. College would just be another debt to add to the growing pile. Not only that, but he could come home on the weekends and Dean and his mom wouldn't worry about him being so far away.

It seemed like the better option.

But why did the idea leave such a sour taste in his mouth?

It was because more than he wanted to appease his brother and his mom, he wanted to prove that he could do more than the bare minimum. His brother had been fine with dropping out of school after Dad died.

_I don't need a degree, Sammy,_ he'd said—pissed their mom off, that was for sure. But he'd just smirked and ruffled his hair and said, _you'll understand when you're older, squirt,_ even though Sam was taller than he was at this point. And Sam understood, even then, that in Dean's eyes he needed to be there for his family. Dean would be enough for Mom, Sam thought. Him leaving probably wouldn't even be that big of a deal, right?

He sighed and hung his head in his hands.

It wasn't supposed to be this hard. It definitely hadn't been this hard for Dean, not that he'd gone as far away as California. Still, it was a few hours south and it was different not having him around. But all he could remember of Dean going off to college was a short stack of acceptance letters, their parents bragging to everyone within shouting distance, and a quick argument about him choosing the University of Illinois over some of the more prestigious schools.

_They offered you a sports scholarship, Dean! You don't have to worry about tuition as long as you keep your grades up. _

_It's not about that! I don't want to play professional ball. I don't want to play in college, period! If I stay in-state, I don't have to._

There were other arguments, but their mom and dad didn't really have much of a say. If Dean chose to go one place or another, they would have supported him—_did _support him, in fact. He was stubborn and only Sam knew that he'd picked the place closest to home so he could look out for his family. It wasn't something he was ever going to tell his mom, but Sam suspected that she knew.

The point was, it wasn't this hard when Dean went to school. Everyone, even Sam, had been excited about it. Dean was an adult, moving out of the house, getting a degree, becoming a productive member of society. Sure, there'd been a bit of apprehension about Dean going off to live on his own, but a quick promise to visit every other weekend cleared that right up. And he'd been fine.

Sam could do the same. He could just as easily go to the same university as Dean did. He could get his degree and find a career from there. It wasn't what he really wanted, but he could live with it. It was better this way. Really.

"Sam! Dinner!"

Sam tossed the acceptance letter in the top drawer of his desk and slammed it shut, steeling himself to his future. It was harder than he thought it'd be.

He walked downstairs, the smell of what had to be meatloaf increasing with every step. Say what you will about his mom's cooking, no one made better meatloaf. Entering the dining room, he was met with three faces he didn't expect: Derek, Amber, and…

"Dean? What are you doing here? It's not Tuesday."

"Nope. Just here to celebrate." He flung his arm around the back of Amber's chair and Sam couldn't help the large grin that spread across his face.

"Seriously?" he asked. "You finally asked her? When's the date?"

"Wha –no. It's…" Dean looked chagrined as he caught Amber's gaze.

Sam frowned at the misunderstanding. If it wasn't that, what was it? Was she…? "Are you pregnant?" he asked hesitantly, blushing.

"I better not be," Amber answered easily. "It would totally ruin my five-year plan."

"Then what?"

"You, Sammy," Dean said, slightly angry now that he was going to be in the dog house. "Stanford. You're number one school. Acceptance letter. Ring any bells?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Ma told us. Come on, Sammy, who do you think checks the mail? You can't tell me you didn't expect her not to make a big deal about it." He leaned in and said seriously, "I think she made an apple pie for this." Which was probably the highest compliment in his mind that she could pay to the occasion.

A look Sam couldn't decipher passed across Dean's features. He sat straighter in his chair and his face took on a more familiar confused and worried set. "You okay?" he asked and it meant more than if Derek or Amber or his mom were to ask because Dean almost always knew what was wrong without ever having to ask.

"'M fine," he mumbled. "I just wish she wouldn't make such a big deal about it."

"Of course we're making a big deal. It's _Stanford_. It's every nerd's wet dream. You've been dreaming about this day for, like, ever."

Sam shrugged and looked away. "I don't really want to go anymore," he lied. "I think I'm going to accept the offer from Illinois."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dean shift in his seat. Sam flinched a little at the imagined disappointment he knew he would see on his brother's face if he looked.

Yep. There it was.

Not surprisingly, that look on Dean's face did more to convince Sam that he'd made the wrong choice than anything else. If Dean was disappointed then it was probably a good idea to think more about things before he made his decision. The fact that Dean was taking his statement so seriously said a lot about how wrong Sam was to stay behind.

"It was just an idea," he corrected. "I'm not really sure yet. I mean, I'm still thinking about it."

* * *

**One more chapter, I think, before we merge with canon. I'm not too sure yet, but just I case, I'm posting the warning now: **

***SPOILERS: up to season 3. (Seriously, people, if you're not caught up to there yet, but are reading Spn fan fiction, I can't really be blamed for ruining things for you)**


	11. Worried

Sam woke with a start.

He could feel his heart hammering a mile a minute and it was all he could do to pull in huge lungfuls of air time and time again. He had forgotten the woman beside him until she shifted, turning towards him. Sam didn't look at her, though he knew she was awake now from the hand rubbing slow circles on his chest. He was grateful for the contact. It grounded him in a way nothing else would.

It took him a minute, but his breathing evened out and his heart rate slowed. All that was left of the nightmare was a slight sheen to his pallor and his memory.

"You want to talk about it?" Jessica asked from beside him.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just a nightmare."

"I noticed." She rested on her elbow, leaning over him. "Tell me about it."

Sam hesitated for a moment before speaking. "It was weird," he said eventually, blushing. "It started off great. You remember Zach's birthday party?"

She nodded, smiling at the memory.

"Yeah. Well, it started off like that, but right before we ditched everyone for the hot tub, it just cut out. You're gone and I'm at home—not here; in Chicago—just standing on the lawn. Dean's off of work for some reason even though it's too early and he looks worried. He passes me on the way to the front door, doesn't even say hi. The next thing I know, I'm in my mom's bedroom and…" he trailed off, remembering.

If Jessica was disappointed that he didn't finish, she didn't show it. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine." The slight break in his voice bellied the words.

"You worried about them?" Whatever he'd seen had obviously shaken him up.

"It was just a dream, Jess."

"And it was probably brought on by the stress of studying so hard for finals. That doesn't mean you're not worried."

"I said I'm fine. Just drop it."

Jessica leveled her gaze at Sam and he looked up at her sheepishly.

"I'm sorry, but I'm—"

"If you say you're fine, I'm going to smack you. That's the third one this week and I know you enough to see when you're worried. Just call them."

Sam didn't answer.

"It's what phones are _for_."

"It's one in the morning, Jess. They're probably sleeping."

She scoffed. "No excuses. You haven't talked to Dean in over a week. He's probably already planning to break into our house just to make sure you're okay. He'd more than welcome a call from you, even this late at night."

"He's going to freak out is what he's going to do."

"Probably," she amended, "but he'll also be thrilled that you care enough to worry about them and you know it."

Sam couldn't argue with that, try as he might. "He's probably sleeping," he said, but he sat up anyway, swinging his legs onto the floor, and reached for the phone.

He dialed the number from memory and, when it picked up three rings later, he sighed in defeat. He'd hoped Dean would have slept through it.

"Hello?" Dean asked, sleepily.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said.

"Sammy?" He was wide awake now. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, earning a scowl from Jessica.

"Are you sure?" Dean asked, worriedly. "It's one in the morning, man. Wait. Are you drunk?!" he asked incredulously. "It's Wednesday. Don't you have class tomorrow?"

Sam sighed. This was why he didn't want to call. "I'm not drunk, Dean."

"Then what is it?"

Sam kept silent, not knowing where to start.

"You wouldn't have called me unless it was important so spit it out already." Dean was angry.

Sam understood. Dean didn't like going so long without hearing from him. He probably almost had a heart attack hearing Sam's voice on the line so late at night.

"Just tell him," Jessica said from behind him.

"It's, well, it's stupid," Sam said into the phone. He sighed. "How's Mom doing? Is she okay?"

"Quit changing the subject." Dean's voice was hard. "Just tell me what's going on already."

"I'm serious," Sam said. "How is she?"

Dean's voice was softer when he answered. "She wishes you'd call more, but she's doing okay. She signed up for some new-age yoga thing last week. Are you sure you're okay?"

Sam chuckled lightly, relieved that their mother seemed to be doing alright. "Yeah. Been having some freaky dreams lately. Jess finally made me call you. I just wanted to make sure you guys are okay."

"Awww. You worried about us little brother?"

"Shut up, Dean." Sam could hear Dean's barely-concealed laughter through the phone.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "How's Jessica?"

Sam looked at her, smiling. "She's fine. Finals are next week and then we're planning on coming out to visit. You still have room to put us up?

"Yeah. Amber cleaned out the guest room. It's all set. Ma's looking forward to seeing you guys."

"Did you talk to her today?" Sam asked.

Sam heard Dean shuffling around before he answered. "No. I called her around nine, but she didn't answer. Probably sleeping."

There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Sam's stomach. "If I asked you to do something for me, would you do it? Even if it sounded crazy?"

There was a small pause. "Of course I would, Sammy. You know that."

"Can you go over and check on Mom, just to make sure she's okay?"

"Tonight?"

"Please?"

He could hear Dean's sigh, but when finally spoke, he said, "sure thing. I'll call you from my cell when I get there."

"Thanks, Dean."

* * *

"It was a heart attack," Sam told Jessica, flinging the phone onto the bed and running his hands through his hair. "A freaking heart attack!"

"She's okay, though, that's the important thing."

Sam knew that, but he still felt guilty. "If I'd been there—"

"It still would have happened," she finished. "The only difference is that she would _also_ be disappointed that you weren't at school."

"It's just…"

"I know, Sam, but we're going there next week and you'll get to see her then. Dean says she's fine, _she's fine_," she said earnestly, looking into his eyes. "You did all you could do from here."

He _had_ done all he could. He'd asked Dean to check on her in the middle of the night because of a _nightmare_ for Pete's sake—a nightmare that just so happened to come true. He didn't know if it was some freaky ESP thing or just luck, but it made him more than a little uneasy that he'd known it was going to happen.

"It was a one in a million thing. Not all of your nightmares are going to start coming true," Jessica said, reading his mind.

"I know that," he said, but he really wasn't sure. He'd had dreams like this before that just seemed so real, implausible as they may be. Would those come true as well?

"Come to sleep," she said, beckoning him to the bed. "You have class in the morning and you're useless when you don't at least get in a few hours. You can check on her in the morning."

"Yeah," he said, absentmindedly. He laid in bed next to her, falling asleep without really meaning to. When he woke in the morning from another bout of fitful sleep, he didn't remember much about his dream except the heat of the flames.

* * *

**Sorry it took so long to post, Fearless Readers. Two chapters today, just for you. The next two will come in three days (Friday) so stay tuned. Drop a line, let me know what you think :) Read on!**


	12. Pilot

"So, Sammy," Dean started, biggest shit-eating grin on his face Sam had ever seen.

"It's Sam," he corrected uselessly. As if he could have been heard over the noise of the bar around them.

"One seventy-four," Dean whistled. He slapped Sam on the arm. "I knew you had it in you, man. My brother, the lawyer."

Sam chuckled at Dean's enthusiasm and took a swig of his beer.

"Better than a mechanic, I'll tell you that much," Dean continued. "Ma's gonna be proud of you."

Sam couldn't deny the implication in Dean's words. Their mom had been pretty disappointed in Dean when he'd dropped out of college, though he'd opened a garage of his own a couple of years ago. It got pretty good business—everyone knew Dean was the best mechanic around and wouldn't charge you an arm and a leg for service—but it had still been a disappointment to her that he hadn't stayed the last two semesters to get a degree. She didn't even care what degree he'd gotten so long as it was something she could hang on the wall.

Dean didn't think about it that way though. Tuition wasn't cheap and Sammy was the brains of the family anyway. Dean always knew what he'd be doing for the rest of his life. Opening the garage when he did was just a few years before he'd planned for it to happen. He didn't need a degree to keep him happy. That was Sam's department.

"I know," Sam said. "Still, I wish you could stay out here, man. Amber keeping you on that short of a leash?"

Dean chuckled. "No shorter than Jessica's," he joked, shooting a glance at the girl in question.

"That's where you're wrong," Jessica said. She stood up and grabbed her purse, smirking at Dean. "Sam doesn't need a leash. He comes when I call."

That was enough to send both brothers into howls of laughter. It was a while before they came down. Dean wiped tears from his eyes, he'd laughed so hard.

"Seriously though," Sam said. "I'm glad you're here."

"Wouldn't have missed it. When's your interview?"

"Monday morning. Jess says that, with my scores, I can have my pick of law schools."

"You thinking of transferring?"

Sam thought about it. He shook his head. "No," he said, serious now. "There's just something _right_ about this place. I can't explain it. It's like I'm supposed to be here, you know?"

Dean chuckled. "You want to know what I know? I know you must be pretty wasted right now."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

They both smiled at the familiar exchange.

* * *

_Death sighed in contentment as he always did when he reaped a familiar soul. He didn't often make a habit of collecting them himself, but this one was special. Not only had it directly touched both of the Winchesters' lives, but it was also one of the few that wouldn't add a tally to either of the lists Death had kept count of. This was a rare soul, one that had a set expiration date, no matter the timeline. It didn't matter if the supernatural existed or not, if any decisions had been made or not made or ever had any influence in the first place. _

_Jessica Moore would always die November 2, 2005. There were no variations of her timeline in this respect. Her death was locked in. Sealed. No changes could be made, not even by Death. _

_This was one soul that Death felt the urge to collect himself. Instead of glimpsing the brothers' lives as he always did—through the veil, so to speak—Death watched literally from the doorway as the youngest Winchester gazed up at what was soon to be the charred remains of his fiancé. _

_Jessica opened her mouth to scream and it was in that moment that Death chose to take her soul. There was no need for it to suffer any longer than it had already and she would be dead in moments anyway. Sure enough, just as Samuel erupted into shouts that called his brother from downstairs, Jessica burst into flames. _

_He'd gotten what he came for, but Death continued to watch as Dean wrestled his brother outside. It was the second time he had seen this scene. Unlike most, Death did not see the bodies that housed the souls, but rather the individual souls themselves. Dean's was bright, brighter than most even. It was constantly moving in a flux of overconfidence and self-doubt, protectiveness and loneliness. It was a righteous soul. There was none like it. _

_Likewise, Sam's soul was unique. His shone dark, though with just as much intensity as his brother's, with a hint of demon blood that made his soul shimmer with repressed anger and a hidden evil. It was tainted from infancy, the trace only growing more potent as the years passed. _

_This was the second time Death had seen these two souls interlocked this way. Neither of them had ever shone as they did now, even compared to that first night after the fire that had claimed their mother. _

_Dean wrenched his brother away from the flames that were so familiar to him. It was how he had lost everything after all. The thought—_protect Sammy_—was plain in every facet of his being. Samuel struggled against his brother's hold to throw himself back into the flames. For the first time, his soul was consumed completely by the demonic stain, so much so that his eyes went black for a fraction of a second before returning to normal. Complete rage took hold of him—anger, hatred, obsession and madness filled him to the core of his being, all tinged with a twisted desperation. _

_It was in that moment that Samuel's rage turned to confusion as he caught a glimpse of Death in the doorway, but his confusion broke the trance and a small glimpse was all he got. _

_They were a sight to see, these two brothers._

_To Death, it was as if he was staring at a priceless work of art. Their souls were in contrast, but they fit together so perfectly that there was hardly a space to separate one from the other. They truly were a matched set and that would be their downfall. This was only the beginning, Death knew. Starting now, the real counting began. _

_This was supposed to be the event that spurred the two brothers into going on a rampage throughout the country. They would take soul after soul off of Death's list, leaving them to walk the earth, safe and unharmed. Now, though, John was the only one who was truly there to act as a barrier between night and day. In the coming months, the night would rule. _

_Death took Jessica's soul in his hand. This one did not count toward the tally, but so far, he counted three-hundred six souls that had been added to his list. Death did not want to think about where that number would be by the end of the coming year. _

* * *

**As I said, Readers, the next two chapters will be posted on Friday :)**


	13. Can't

"I can't help you, Sam, if you don't talk to me."

Sam didn't answer. Every once in a while, he'd engage with his brother, but this time, he tuned Dean out. It was too hard to focus on the words when there were so many others he could hear alongside them. Sam allowed himself to be towed in and out of rooms. He ate when told, slept when told, moved when told.

If given the opportunity, though, he would have sat in the corner and withered away. It was better that way. At least if he was alone, the pressure in his mind—not his head because it wasn't physical, it wasn't that simple—would have lessened enough for him to sleep. Sleep always allowed him to concentrate better. Well, when he could sleep anyway. It was only when he lacked a decent amount of sleep that he could feel his slow descent into madness.

Dean was there, though, to make sure that that didn't happen.

The first few months after Jessica's death had been the hardest. Sam was angry, angry like Dean had never seen. It was terrifying to watch his usually carefree brother change like that. Sam would go off for no reason, yelling and fighting as if for his life, then shaking afterward, confused and agitated. If Sam wasn't home, he was in a bar—one that he hadn't been booted from—or at the cemetery, staring at Jess's gravestone. There wasn't much of a body left to bury, but the few remains they had went in the ground.

Sam's mind deteriorated at such a pace that Dean couldn't do anything but watch until his brother cooled down. When that happened, it was nearly instantaneous.

Sam yelled, screamed at Dean for bringing him back to Chicago. If there was anyone Sam blamed, it was his brother. No one else had been there to drag Sam from the building and that was what he resented the most, that he'd lived when Jessica died.

So he did what he often did in these situations, he yelled at Dean, attacked him even, but Dean was quick. He hadn't skimped on his training any, though he hardly had the time between Sammy and the garage, so it would be child's play to subdue him.

But Sam stopped before he could even get close enough to his brother to hit him. It was sudden and horrible, nothing like it had been before with the dreams. This time, he was awake. Pain erupted in his head, felt like someone reached into his skull and _squeezed_. It was pressure, too much so, and it split him apart. Then came the flashes. Pictures circled through his head rapidly. He was entranced with them. Watching was the only thing that took the pain away.

He watched as the balding man entered his home and set his groceries on the counter. He watched as a shadow passed by the doorway and as the kitchen window slid up on its own. He watched as the man turned and stuck his head outside, looking up to find the cause of the problem. He screamed as the window came down quickly, as it severed the man's head from his body, as blood splattered across the window and dripped down onto the street below.

Then the pain came back in force, shoving his mind away from the scene and back into his own body. Everything was blinding hot pinpricks in his skull. As suddenly as it came, it was gone, leaving Sam panting and shaking on the floor of his apartment. He didn't know how he'd gone from standing to sitting so quickly, but he couldn't even move to right himself.

That was when he'd changed again. This time, directly in front of Dean. Sam allowed himself to be manhandled into the kitchen for a glass of water. Dean asked what had happened, but Sam didn't answer, didn't show any sign that he'd even heard Dean speak. It was then that he decided to call an ambulance.

Things happened pretty quickly after that. Despite Dean's misgivings, Sam was admitted to the Berwyn State Hospital and put under observation in the mental ward. Three doctors and two hospitals later, Sam was diagnosed—and rediagnosed—with some sort of mental breakdown and disorder that neither of them could pronounce.

Sam didn't care much what happened to him. The dreams that had manifested made his life a living hell. When he wasn't dreaming of death, he was seeing it while he was awake, alive and in person. At first, he'd thought it was cool, dreaming of things before they happened. Then Jessica died and Sam had known it would happen, but couldn't do anything to stop it. How was he to know that the vision of Jessica hovering on the ceiling, a bleeding slash across her stomach, going up in flames, would actually come true?

But he should have known, he thought, because those dreams had the same feel of the others, the ones that he _knew_ were real. It didn't matter that it was impossible for that to happen. It _did_ happen and he should have been able to stop it, should have taken the dreams more seriously.

After Jess, Sam hated the visions. But he'd opened the floodgates and there was no way for him to build a dam in time to stop the images from pouring into his mind. They took him at all hours of the day, leaving him exhausted, worn out. He aged a decade in the few months after her death. And a few months after that, there seemed to be no way for him to get the peace he needed. The world became impossible for him to process when every little thing could trigger another bout of image-filled migraines.

Dean worried. Amber worried. His mom worried. His friends worried. Even Jessica's parents worried and somehow that was even worse than all of the others combined. Sam could see them all, not just in person, but in his head. He saw glimpses of their lives, their thoughts. The overwhelming onslaught of voices in his head was what drove him over the edge.

That was just over a year ago.

Now, Sam sat across from his psychiatrist, Dr. Julianne Marks, not really trying to ignore her so much as simply tuning everything out. He still had them, the headaches. He had them at the most inopportune times and every one was worse than the last, showing him these incredible images that just couldn't be real, but he knew that they were even if he was the only one.

"Sam?"

There were the visions of the impossible suicides. After that came the yellow-eyed man. A woman's fiancé went up in flames, like Jessica. There was the doctor who shot his friends in a hunting shop. The woman who lit herself on fire at a gas station. Endless visions. Endless dying. It was his entire life, it seemed, to see the impossible deaths around him.

And worst of all, no one believed.

"Sam, I know you can hear me."

He'd told them before, when he first arrived, about Jessica on the ceiling and the people dying almost everyday now in his head. He could feel them all, poking at him, name after name of those who were going to die. He _knew_ they were real. He didn't know before… before Jessica. It was the same with her, only those had been dreams. Her on the ceiling, stomach slit open and blood dripping down, the fire consuming everything, and everywhere, everywhere those eyes.

"Sam, you need to stop it. You're hurting yourself, Sam."

They were in every one of his visions, in all of his dreams—nightmares really. Those damn yellow eyes consumed everything, caused countless deaths, none of which Sam was able to stop. The last time he'd tried, he… He couldn't help any of them, but he could remember them. All of them. He could do that, if nothing else. Again, he ran through the names, remembering their faces and mourning for them. He was the only one who knew their deaths, who had been with them in the end.

He felt a hand covering his own. It wasn't until then that he realized the slight pricks of pain on his forearm. He'd been scratching again.

"Sam? Are you with me?"

He was. Sam nodded. Other than Dean, there was only one other person Sam was willing to speak with and she was in front of him.

"You were scratching." She looked pointedly at his arm.

Sam nodded again, catching the implication. He hadn't even realized it was happening, but he would be more conscious of it in the future. He didn't like the restraints they'd put on him if he wasn't.

"Want to tell me what you're thinking?" she asked.

He liked that she didn't pry too hard. He could talk to her on his own time, when he was ready for it. She had been the one he'd told about Jessica's pregnancy, about her burning on the ceiling, about the yellow eyes, before any of the others. Sometimes, she was right, it helped to talk. Mostly, though, he preferred to keep to himself. This time, it seemed as if the former was his best option.

"They're all there," Sam said. "In my head. I try to stop them, but the headaches come and push me away and I can see…" he trailed off and had to concentrate to keep from scratching again.

"See what, Sam?" she prompted when he stopped talking.

"I can see them all dying, every one of them."

This time, she saw that his pause was to prepare himself. He planned on continuing. He just needed time to do so. She kept silent and her patience was rewarded a minute later.

"Fifty-six left of them now. There were dozens of them before. It's going to come for me soon, but I'll see it before. I always see them—twice. Once when they're taken, once when they die. I'll see me, both times, _twice_. I'll see _me_ taken to Cold Oak and then I'll see _me_ die just like I see them. They come faster with every round of the gauntlet because it has to be a gauntlet. Why would they bring them in round after round unless it was a gauntlet? Every week, four more. Winner takes all, but then there's the prize…" he trailed off, thinking again and the doctor knew she was losing him.

"What's the prize, Sam?" she asked, knowing that feeding into his delusions wasn't good for him, but not seeing another way to keep him from retreating back into himself.

She was surprised when, instead of droning on like he had been, half mumbling to himself instead of actively talking to her, he looked her right in the eye and spoke clear as a bell. A small smile even played on his lips. It was a welcome sight, even if the words he spoke bellied the action.

"There's never a prize," he said. "We all die in the end. Why would this be any different?"

That, she didn't have an answer to.

"I need you to do me a favor. Please," he added when she looked hesitant. "When I disappear like them, when Dean comes looking for me, you can't tell him where I am until it's all over. He'll go and he'll die and I can't see that. Can't see it. Can't."

With that, Sam was gone, she'd lost him.


	14. Don't Tell

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, clapping him on the back.

Sam turned away from the window to see his brother. Dean was both the best and the worst part of this place. He came almost everyday to see him, but he played the nurse, not the brother. It was the same as the time he'd had the chicken pox. Dean stayed by his side, making sure he was okay, but was always worrying about him, trying to make him better.

Dean was the same as then and Sam missed his brother.

"Dean," he said in greeting before staring back out of the window. It hurt to see the concerned look on Dean's face so he didn't look most of the time.

"Are you okay? Have you eaten? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," Sam said, same as always. "Eggs this morning. Couldn't sleep last night. I had another one."

Sam knew by Dean's silence that he was waiting for him to continue. Sam sighed. Even now, he didn't want to disappoint his brother.

"It was a woman." The women were always worse. This one especially because she looked so similar to Jess. "There was this thing there, these little girls, but they weren't girls. They had these nails and this –this face. Teeth. She was torn apart."

Dean didn't say anything and Sam was grateful. He hadn't had enough time to mourn for the woman yet and her death had been remarkably gruesome.

"Karrie Parker," Sam whispered to himself.

Dean picked up on it. "What?" he asked.

"Her name was Karrie Parker," Sam repeated a bit louder for Dean to hear. "With a K," he added.

"Karrie with a K," Dean murmured. He did it without any hint of cynicism or patronization, only a deep rooted sadness. Sam knew that the sadness was more for him than it was for her, but it made things better that Dean was here to mourn with him. Karrie deserved for people to feel sad at her passing.

They stood like that for a while, but Dean was never one to be still for long. Eventually, he roped Sam into conversation, pulling him from his thoughts for an hour and a half before things went south.

Sam could always tell now when another vision would come to him. He'd learned to recognize the signs—the slight tremor in his hands, his vision blurring every few minutes, the sudden restfulness—and prepare for them. There was a time when the visions would bring him to his knees. Once, they'd made him fall flat on his face and he wound up with six stitches and a new medication that made his mouth dry. Now, though, he knew how to make the transition just a bit easier.

He may not have liked the visions, but he'd learned to live with them.

Right on time came the sudden, if expected, overwhelming pressure in his head. Just as it was starting to feel as if his head would explode, he _pulled_ the images forward and was thrust once again into another vision. He didn't fight them anymore and with every second, the pressure dimmed until it was gone completely. This one was long compared to the others, but the pain was easier to handle and, like always, those yellow eyes were there at the end.

Sam clutched his head in his hands and tried to keep his moans as low as possible while he returned to himself. It was always disorienting, but the last thing he wanted was to summon the nurses. They meant well, he knew, but they didn't understand what was happening to him, that the visions were warnings, especially this one. If they saw, they would restrain him and medicate him and Dean would have to leave like he always did after an 'episode.' So he tried to keep quiet.

It took longer to recover from the attack, but when he came to, he saw that he'd failed. Sam had the attention of the entire room now, including three orderlies, two nurses, just over a dozen residents, and his brother who looked at him with such guilt that it left an imprint on Sam's mind. Dean should never have had to look at him that way. This wasn't any of his fault, but Dean would always feel guilty, if not for his nonexistent part in Sam's delusions, then in being the one to put him here in the first place. And the weight Dean carried on his shoulders would only be added to after tonight.

A nurse kneeled down next to him and it took a moment for him to realize that she'd been speaking to him. His visions always made it harder to concentrate. Coupled with the medications that worked to keep him complacent, the visions pulled all of the energy out of him, even the small amount he reserved for simple thinking and motor skills.

"'M fine," he mumbled once he could find the muscles that controlled his speech. "Gimme a minute." Sam waited until his breathing was under control and his sight returned to normal. The minute pain had dulled to a low throb in his head that was uncomfortable, but manageable. It took more than a minute for him to get his bearings, but by the time he was able to stand on his own, Dean was ready to say goodbye and Dr. Marks was on her way to help him to an emergency session.

Sam didn't really care about much that was going on around him, but the one thing he knew was that he couldn't let Dean leave without a proper goodbye.

"Dean," he tried to call, but it sounded muffled even to him.

"I'm here, Sammy," he said, reaching out to steady Sam's swaying shoulders.

Sam ignored the light contact and pulled him into a long hug, much to the Dean's surprise. They'd never been a real hands-off kind of family, but hugs and the like were usually reserved for special occasions and funerals. It was weird, Sam knew, but he couldn't let Dean go without telling him something.

"You're a great brother," he said. "And it's not your fault."

"What are—?"

"Love you, Dean." Sam cut him off.

Dean looked at him skeptically. He didn't know what had prompted the sudden change in Sam. _Another_ sudden change, he reminded himself. There had been so many in the last year. "Yeah, Sammy," he said instead. "Love you, too. You know that."

"Bye," Sam said.

It was a dismissal if Dean ever heard one.

Sam turned away from his brother, knowing that if he kept watching as Dean left, he wouldn't be able to keep from crying. That was a big no-no here. It would be seen as him slipping into hysteria and only more drugs would await him. His next session with Dr. Marks would be postponed. That couldn't be allowed to happen. This was probably the only session that mattered to him. He needed to talk to her as soon as possible. There wasn't much time.

"Sam?"

When Sam looked up, he was shocked to see the doctor in question watching him in concern.

"Are you ready for your session?"

It wasn't a rhetorical question. Sam knew that, if he told her no, he wasn't ready, she would give him the time he needed.

Sam nodded though and followed her through the short maze of halls to her office. She didn't speak again until they were both sitting comfortably in their chairs.

"You're still getting the headaches?" she asked, trying to hide her disappointment.

Sam hesitated, but then nodded sheepishly. He'd been keeping his visions a secret ever since he'd told her about the gauntlet. The last time he mentioned it, they'd put him on some meds that made everything fuzzy. They hadn't made the visions disappear, but they had made it so hard to concentrate during them that he couldn't remember much of what happened. He _needed_ to remember. The people in his visions deserved that from him. Luckily, some side effects started rearing their ugly heads and Dr. Marks took him off of them, switching them to some less-effective—not that she knew that—meds.

"Why did you feel the need to keep them a secret?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

When he spoke, it was with nothing more than a whisper. "They didn't stop," he said. "It just made everything… blurry."

"What did, Sam?"

"The pills. The blue ones—I don't remember the name—they took my head and made everything smoosh together. I forgot them," he admitted ashamedly. "I don't want to forget them."

"Forget who?"

"Sarah Kedrick, James Roberts, Cynthia Saint-Claire, Arthur Heaver, Linda Patrick, Fa Chu, Emily Rossen, Terry Harrisburg, Dwaine Cooper, Samantha Tate…" Sam repeated all of the names he remembered, the faces of the fallen flashing before his eyes. Tears poured down his face in torrents, but his voice was steady. All were present, but for the few he'd seen during the heavy medication stint. "…Karrie Parker, Sammy Winchester."

There was a pregnant pause before Dr. Marks spoke. "Winchester?" she asked.

It wasn't the question Sam was expecting. He'd been prepared to answer who these people were, why he'd spoken their names, how they'd died, why his own name was on the list. He never even considered the surname that came easily to his lips.

Sam nodded. "It's me," he said.

"Why that name, Sam?" she asked.

Sam's smile was small, but present and the doctor took that as a good sign. "It's my real name. Dean can tell you. He probably still remembers it. I was only a baby, but Dean was six—old enough that he would remember his real name. I wasn't a Clark until I was two."

"So why did you use it? Why this name?"

"It's what he calls me," Sam said. "'Little Sammy Winchester.' He's always the one who tells me the names, before then they're just faces."

"Who, Sam?"

"The man with the yellow eyes. He's the one who puts us in the gauntlet."

Dr. Marks remembered the session when Sam mentioned the gauntlet in… Cold Oak? Something like that. She had the notes in another file. She planned to compare them later.

"You're in a gauntlet?" she questioned.

Sam rolled his eyes and scoffed softly at her tone. He wiped the tears off of his face and sniffled to clear his nose. He hated crying. "No, not now."

The doctor made a note that Sam was definitely more engaged in this conversation. He was still slightly withdrawn, but nowhere near where he'd been even a month ago.

"I think it's happening tonight," Sam said slowly, trying to piece the vision together again. "Yeah, it's tonight." When it looked like she was waiting for him to continue, he did. "I need you to promise me that you'll do something," Sam said. "It's not something you shouldn't do," he hastened to inform her.

Dr. Marks thought about it and nodded. "Tell me what you want and I'll promise if I can, alright?"

"Okay." Sam took a breath to steel himself. This would take away any chance of rescue, he knew. This would bring his death. There would be no one there to help him if he did this. "You have to promise that you won't tell Dean where he's taking me."

"We won't let you go anywhere, Sam. You're safe here. You know that, don't you?"

Sam smiled genuinely at her, but it was still a hopeless smile and more than a little chiding for her innocence. "I know. Humor me, though. I won't go willingly, but if I can't fight him off, don't tell Dean about the gauntlet. He can't know. Please," he pleaded.

"Alright," she said. "I have a new deal for you. Promise me that you will stay here tonight and I won't tell Dean about the gauntlet."

"I can't," Sam told her sadly. "But please don't tell him."

She already couldn't tell the brother anything about their sessions so that was an easy enough promise to keep. The only thing that worried her, however, was this man with yellow eyes that Sam had been seeing. There had never been hints before of Sam wanting to run. If anything, she knew that he liked having the outside world shut out. He'd definitely developed a good case of agoraphobia while he'd been here. Even his time in the garden was spent as close to the walls as possible. Why he would leave, she didn't know. She would press for information, though. For it to have been such a recent development meant that something in his environment had changed. Perhaps it was one of the orderlies or nurses who had done something. If so, she would find out what.

* * *

_Dean didn't know how to feel. _

_Death could see the emotions surrounding his soul in a whirlwind. Anger, worry, doubt, guilt, anxiety, depression. It left his soul shining brilliantly, beckoning to any creature within a five mile radius. Luckily for the boy, there was nothing near. Azazel had who he wanted—the youngest Winchester boy. Dean was not on the list yet. Despite the brilliance of his soul, to Azazel he was just that: a soul. Death knew that Dean would play a much bigger role in the coming storm. For now, though, Death was content to watch Dean pace the length of the garage, worrying over Samuel's disappearance. _

_Another familiar soul drove up to the garage, so similar to Dean's, but too dim to be mistaken for his. Time had been rewritten for this man. One thousand four hundred forty-two people had been reaped before their times because of his decision. The world was a much darker place. The night was ruling quickly instead of being culled by the Winchesters. Now, there was only John to keep the night at bay and the night did not take the hunter seriously. It would be a mistake for many, but for most, it was their opportunity to take the world. _

_But there was still time, yet. Still decisions to be made. Death watched and waited. _

* * *

**Hey, Fearless Readers! Unfortunately, school starts again next week which means less time for me to write. I'll try to average 1-2 posts every week until I'm finished with this fic, but no promises. What I can promise, though, is that the next chapter will be up Monday. What do you think? Leave me a comment and let me know :) Read on!**


	15. Reunion

"Is Dean around?"

The deep voice startled Ryan. He hadn't heard the man come up, though he didn't really have much of an excuse for that seeing as the man's car was parked just three yards away. The man was old and gruff, but his car was a classic and Ryan knew him on sight.

"Holy crap, John," Ryan said. He chuckled breathlessly. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Not my fault you're not on your toes," John said good-naturedly. "Dean in today?"

"Yeah," Ryan hesitated. "He's in the back. He's not working on any cars today, though, John."

Ryan expected the concerned creasing of his eyebrows. What he wasn't expecting was the intense—slightly scary, though he wouldn't admit that—look on John's face. Ryan swallowed thickly.

"What happened?" John asked.

"Not sure," Ryan shrugged. "Something about his brother, I think. Dean just said to tend the customers and then he holed himself up in his office. I can take a peek under the hood if you want though. It'd be a privilege to take care of such a beauty."

"Not a chance," John said. His smile was gone and Ryan thought that maybe he was still shooting for a playful tone, but just wasn't quite succeeding.

"Oh, come on, John. Dean's the only one who ever gets to work on her." He reached out to slide his hand along her hood, but hesitated when he heard, "Touch the car and you'll regret it."

Ryan sighed. If John didn't want anyone touching his car, that was his own business. John was a weird one alright. Dean obviously had some respect for the man, but there was just something that didn't sit right in Ryan's stomach. John was intense… and more than a little obsessed with his boss, truth be told. Ryan suspected that John's feelings were more than platonic, but since he'd never done anything to prove it one way or the other, Ryan was left to his speculations.

Besides, Dean had Amber. She was a wily one, but she had a good heart. Dean was lucky to have her. If John thought Dean would give him the time of day, he was sadly mistaken, but it wasn't going to be Ryan who broke the news to the man. He liked the way his face was just fine, thank you very much.

"Like I said, man, I'll tell Dean you stopped by."

"I'd actually like a minute with him if you don't mind. I'm here for more than just the car."

Ryan wasn't sure about it, but John didn't really give him much of a choice. The man bounded past him and knocked on Dean's office door before Ryan could even get out a, "hey, wait!"

"You can't be back here," Ryan said, trying to use the most authoritative tone he could muster with his barely-an-adult voice.

John turned around to face him, not so much glaring as simply staring him down. His arms rested comfortably at his sides, but it wasn't until Ryan started looking at them that he realized just how in shape the man was. Ryan didn't have any hope of fighting John off if he decided to become a problem, even if he did still have a wrench in his hands.

The door opened, showing Dean and his slightly red-rimed eyes. Whatever happened with Sammy must have ben bad for him to be so out of sorts. Ryan sure as hell wasn't going to say anything to Dean about it, though. With as much as he was skittish around John, Ryan _knew _that Dean could kick his ass. He'd seen the man in action only once when some junkie tried to rob them, but once was enough to make him more wary about pissing off his boss. And if Ryan was just a little relieved that Dean was here to keep Ryan's skull from being caved in by John WhateverTheFuckHisLastNameWas, it was just another thing that Ryan wasn't going to mention.

"Sorry, Dean," Ryan said. "I know you said not to disturb you."

"It's alright, Ryan," Dean said from the now-open doorway. "Come on in, John. I'll pour you a drink. You look almost as bad as me." Dean's smile was wearier than Ryan had ever seen it.

John nodded, accepting the offer, and walked into the office with just a slightly smug glance behind him.

Then the door was closed and Ryan was alone again.

With a mental shrug, Ryan went back to working on the Wilson car. It was a car he was all too familiar with. For reasons unknown, Sarah Wilson just kept bringing her junker of a car in, time and time again, for repairs. He'd inquired once why she didn't just buy a new car—it would have cost her thousands of dollars less in repairs—but she just shrugged and asked when he would be done with it. Dean had needed to order more parts, but they came quickly enough. He'd be able to call her later to come get it.

It was fifteen minutes later that he heard the first loud bang from the office. Ryan startled and dropped the rag in his hands. He looked curiously at the door, hearing another few knocks and thumps. Now that he was listening, he could hear shouting, but not for help. It was an argument, and it was Dean who was being the loudest about it.

"_You think that makes it better?! Twenty-three years and you think you have a right?!"_

The reply was too quiet for Ryan to hear, but he definitely heard Dean's angry response. Whatever he'd been told obviously hadn't done much to quell his boss's fury. "_Get the hell out of my office, John, or so help me, God, I will force you out!"_

It wasn't until he heard the crash of glass striking the hard floor that Ryan was up and at the phone, grabbing it off of the cradle, going quickly to Dean's office.

He knocked loudly. No answer, but the sounds of a scuffle were unmistakable.

Ryan didn't hesitate this time before grabbing the door knob and turning it easily in his hand. When he pushed the door open, it was to a scene that he both expected and was surprised by. Dean straddled the man's hips and his clenched fist came down on John's surprised face.

Ryan understood the surprise.

To look at him, you wouldn't think he'd be as quick or strong as he was, but that was the worst mistake you could make when fighting Dean Clark. Ryan didn't want to know what John had done to piss his boss off this much—surely him coming on to Dean wouldn't make him this angry, would it?—but whatever it was, Ryan's only option now was to pry Dean off of the man before he killed him, not that he probably could have. As soon as the initial shock wore off, John proved he could hold his own, despite his obvious age.

Before Dean could land a third punch, John's hands were coming up to block him and throw a couple of punches of his own. Dean didn't look as shocked as John had upon finding out the old man could fight. Instead, he just looked all the more focused. His anger bled away, leaving an intensity that matched, and possibly exceeded, John's. His movements became more fluid, moving in tune with the man under him, though he wasn't under him for long. John was soon able to dislodge Dean, flinging him onto his side long enough get to his feet. Dean was up at almost the same time, decreasing the distance between them slowly.

"Dean," John said, calmly. "We shouldn't be fighting. Think about Sammy."

Dean's fist collided with John's jaw before Ryan was even aware he'd thrown the punch. From the lack of defense, John also hadn't seen it coming. The hit landed and John was stunned long enough for Dean to aim his fist directly at the center of his chest.

"It's Sam. And you don't get to talk about him," came the strangely even reply.

John recovered enough to grab the fist after the punch. He was struggling to breathe, but it didn't lessen his grip any. Dean seemed undisturbed by it. With a couple of twists and another well-aimed punch, his arm was released. In another few seconds, Dean had John shoved against the open door, cheek to wood, with both arms behind his back for leverage. Dean leaned forward and whispered in John's ear so quietly that Ryan had to strain to hear it.

"Should have left when I told you."

John struggled in his hold, but Dean applied more pressure until he winced in pain and ceased his struggling. Just when Ryan thought the arm couldn't twist any further, Dean stopped and spoke. "You better stay the fuck away from me, John Winchester, because if I ever see you again, I'll kill you."

All of the fight seemed to drain out of John. If anything, Ryan thought he looked heartbroken.

Dean looked at Ryan in confusion then, obviously trying to figure out when he'd entered the room. Before Dean could ask how much he'd heard, Ryan held the cordless phone up and cleared his throat. "You need me to call the cops, Dean?"

Dean looked at John again, grimacing, and released him. "Won't be necessary," he said. "John was just leaving."

John winced when Dean released him and he cradled his left arm. "I could help you, Dean," he pleaded.

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice unrelenting. "You could have."

As quickly as John's face fell, it became a hardened mask. He nodded once, understanding that he wasn't welcome anymore, and left without another word. Ryan heard John started the Impala and the decreasing roar of the engine signaled his departure.

"You alright, Dean?" Ryan asked.

"Yeah. I'm good," Dean said, though he looked anything but. "Grab me that mop over there?"

Ryan handed him the mop.

"Thanks."

Dean retreated into his office. It wasn't until he heard the quiet tinkling of glass that Ryan remembered what had called him to the office in the first place. Dean seemed to have things well under control though, so Ryan went back to the Wilson car. And if he heard another loud thump followed by quite a few expletives, he wasn't going to mention it.

* * *

**Chapter 15 as promised! School starts up again tomorrow, Readers, so I won't be able to write much in the rush of the next couple of weeks. Luckily, the next two chapters have already been written :) Give me some time to edit and they'll be up... oh, let's say Wednesday. Read on!**


	16. Sealed

_With John's departure, he'd sealed his fate. His name appeared on Death's list almost immediately after entering Dean's office. What Death was surprised by was that Dean's name also flickered its appearance. That, he hadn't expected. Dean's name made four-thousand six-hundred fifteen people that appeared on Death's list because of the mistakes of John Winchester._

_Then again, Death thought, John hadn't ever been known for his tact. Even when dealing with his son, Death could see that John's stubborn refusal to back down had worked against him. It was one thing to implement this behavior when facing down a vampire's nest, but quite another thing altogether to tell the son he'd abandoned all those years ago that, not only was John his father, but that a demon had been the one to kidnap Samuel. That obviously hadn't bidden well with the eldest of his sons._

_Having Dean's name in his hands was a disappointment. Death had hoped that Dean would live a long enough life to make things worth it, not that the life of a single soul would outweigh the destruction of many, but it would have helped to know that at least one person's life had been bettered by the choices John made._

_Death sighed._

_There were still thousands of people to reap before John and after that, hundreds more to reap before Dean. If given the opportunity, he would take them both, Death decided. He'd followed the life of Dean Winchester like he hadn't any other since Cain's. The likeness of the two souls was uncanny. Death still had yet to reap either of them, but when the time came, he would be the one to help cross their souls over to the afterlife. He had yet to speak to the eldest of the Winchester brothers, but Death was sure that he would greet his fate without any misgivings. He would, after all, be the one to choose his fate. Unlike most, Dean would be welcomed to Hell with open arms. His was one of the few souls that would be condemned to Hell for all of eternity. Possibly two. Death couldn't remember the exact terms of a standard contract._

_It was something most didn't know. Even Death's reapers had minimal knowledge of the afterlife. Heaven was where a nice chunk of Earth's souls went. There were those that were recycled, those that remained stagnant in the Earth. Compared with those, the souls of Hell belonged to an almost exclusive club. The only way to become a member was via contract. It was something only the owner of the contract could break. Once signed, the soul belonged to them. Only God and Death had the ability to void a contract and, unfortunately for the poor tortured souls, God was on vacation and Death had too much to worry about than the fates of an imbecilic human who'd traded his most prized possession away for mere trinkets._

_Dean would be on this list. As would John._

_If Dean though he'd gotten rid of his father so quickly, he had yet to see what was in store once his time was up. Only Samuel, Death thought, would be taken to Heaven, not that he'd see it as a paradise without his brother. There was still time, though, to change Dean's fate. His name was on the list, but his destination had yet to be sealed, though Death didn't think there was much of a chance that it would change. He'd always been self-sacrificing, no matter the world he'd grown up in. It was in every fiber of his being, the instinct to protect at all costs. It was his greatest strength being able to fight for the things he believed in, but his greatest weakness as well._

_At the very least, Death thought with a smidge of what he believed to be excitement, he may have a change to speak with Dean before he was to be taken to the Gates of Hell._

_Dean's fate was sealed, as was his father's. Samuel's, though…_

_Death wasn't sure what to make of the murky future he saw concerning the man. Samuel's mind was in chaos, sorting through the possible futures only few had the privilege of seeing. His mind would not have been able to contain the images if it hadn't been for the demon blood coursing through his veins. Even with it, Death wasn't certain whether Samuel would survive Azazel. The demon underestimated the Winchester, but Samuel was not prepared for this fight._

_No._

_Wait._

_Death turned his attention to Cold Oak and reread the scenes that played before him._

_Azazel would cause his own downfall. Samuel was growing stronger now, thriving in the desolate landscape of the abandoned town. There was the connection Death hadn't noticed before, as small as it was—nearly nonexistent actually, though Death chastised himself that he should have seen it sooner. No matter. Samuel's abilities would prove fruitful in the coming battle. It was no wonder that, no matter the decisions made, Samuel's name would not appear on the list._

_Death smirked this time at the images playing out before him. Perhaps it was the youngest Winchester he should have been paying closer attention to. Then again, he thought as he turned his attention back on Dean, the glow of the eldest's soul called to him in a way no other had. It was pure and bright and it had taken some doing, but Death was glad he'd had the foresight to shield him. The supernatural had always been drawn to him, wanting nothing more than to corrupt such an extravagant soul, more so on instinct than anything else. Now, Death was the only one who could sense it so powerfully, but even dulled, he called to others._

_It would be a shame to reap this soul, one that could have done so much good on Earth. Still, it was his duty to keep order in the universe. He could only hope that they would have a chance to meet. If Lilith sent her hounds after him, Death's job would be outsourced and he would never have a chance to speak with the Winchester. _


	17. Cold Oak

**Most of this chapter is set during s2e21: All Hell Breaks Loose Pt.1.**

* * *

Sam woke for the first time in a long time without a migraine. The area around him was as familiar as it was foreign. He'd seen it so many times, but this was his first chance to see it in person. Despite the fact that he would die here, Sam found himself excited to explore the land. It had been so long since he'd felt anything but dread that it was a welcome change.

He didn't remember much from last night, but he remembered his vision and that was enough to tell him what had happened. The orderlies were of the devil. They came into his room with black eyes and wicked smiles and pulled him out kicking and screaming. Why didn't anyone hear him? he wondered. Then he remembered. Someone _did_ hear him. Caleb heard him. Two doors down Caleb heard his screaming and rushed his captors and was stabbed in the chest.

_"Make it look like an accident. Azazel doesn't want anyone getting suspicious with this one."_

Sam added Caleb's name to the list of the dead right before his own. He didn't know Caleb's last name, but the name wasn't important so long as he had the memory. He could be there for Caleb like he was for the others.

His visions didn't do the town justice, he realized as he walked down the unpaved dirt road. The old miner's town smelled heavily of dirt and mildew. Buildings on either side of him were falling down, decayed nearly to the point of complete collapse, yet still standing as if by some preternatural force.

Sam walked up a small set of stairs and onto a wrap-around porch that he'd only ever seen in period pieces before this one. The town was old enough, that was for sure, but the buildings would be safe for him for now. He'd seen his abduction. He would see his death before it happened. Death by building collapse, it seemed, was not in the cards.

He peered through the window, not able to glimpse anything through the caked on dirt and grime. Wanting to see, but not able to through the window, Sam tried the door.

Locked.

He sighed. It seemed as if his curiosity would remain unsatisfied. Being able to see the future didn't make him omniscient, wish as he may. Seeing into a simple building couldn't even be done. Well, he could always go beat cop on it and just kick the door down. He looked down at his slippers, also taking in the thin robe—no belt—blue plaid pajama bottoms, and white t-shirt. Definitely not a door-kicking outfit. He gave up almost immediately on that plan.

Sam took his time on the porch, noticing everything from the cobwebs on the overhang to the sopping leaves collected in piles below him. He tried every door he came to, but none opened for him which was just as well. As he came to the end of the third building, he heard the creak of the floorboards and knew someone else was here. There was really only one to be afraid of, but he couldn't be sure it wasn't her.

Sam looked for something—anything—that could be used against her and settled on a damp piece of plywood that had been propped against the doorframe. He held it above him, like Dean showed him when he'd tried out for tee ball, and crept slowly up to the edge of the building, hands shaking with the adrenaline that was now coursing through his system.

It was only a split-second hesitation that saved the man from being pelted over the head. The man flinched largely, flinging his hands up to protect himself—too late, had Sam actually followed through with the hit.

"Andy?" Sam asked, relieved that it wasn't who he'd thought it was.

"Wha – How do you know who I am?"

"I – "

"Who are you?"

"Oh. My – "

"What am I doing here?"

"I don't know, just –"

"Where _are _we?"

"Just – look, um. Just calm down." Sam looked at the plywood still in his hands and tossed it aside. Rank water and pieces of rotted wood clung to him. Sam wiped them surreptitiously on his robe, trying to get them off.

"Calm down?!" Andy was anything but calm. "I just woke up in freaking _frontier land_."

"What's the last thing you remember?" Sam asked. It was the only thing he could think of to say, though he wasn't sure he really wanted the man to recount what had happened. Andy's abduction had been particularly gruesome.

"Honestly?" he asked, covering his eyes with his palms, trying to calm himself down. "My fourth bong load."

Sam didn't know if he was telling the truth or not, but he hoped Andy wouldn't remember. He _liked_ Andy, knew just how hard it had been on him when he found about his brother. Everything that happened after that had nearly destroyed the man.

"It was weird," Andy understated. "All of a sudden, there was this really intense smell. Like uh – Why am I telling you any of this anyway? Who _are_ you?"

It seemed as if, this time, Andy was giving him enough time to answer. "I'm Sam," he said simply. "And you're Andy. I saw you and your –and Ansem. I'm, uh, I'm sorry… about Tracy."

Andy looked skeptical. No, more than that, Andy looked scared.

Sam knew what was coming. It was the same thing that always came after people found out about the things he knew. He tried to soften the blow as much as he could. Sam smiled sheepishly, looking down at his feet so he wouldn't have to see the expression on Andy's face. "I'm psychic," he said. "I think. Well, I get these… visions? sometimes. I saw what happened and I'm just –I wanted to say sorry."

He flinched a little involuntarily, expecting a loud rebuff, but none came. There was a short pause before Andy spoke, but when Sam looked up to meet his eyes, the earlier skepticism was gone, replaced by excited fascination.

"Psychic?" Andy asked. "Like Johnny in _The Dead Zone_? That's so cool."

Sam grimaced. "Not really like that. I mean, I don't get visions from touching. It's just with the… you know," Sam said, but Andy looked confused. "The demon, the kids."

Andy held his arms out, stopping Sam from continuing. He backed away a little, trying to distance himself from the crazy. Sam had known it was just a matter of time. Still, he didn't think that mentioning the demon was what would of put Andy. Most people lost it at 'psychic.' Sam wondered briefly how he would react to the whole 'delusional schizophrenic with a pain disorder and a myriad of other big-worded medical terms attached to his diagnosis' thing.

"Demon? I don't know anything about any demon, man. Like, seriously, I don't mess with any of that stuff."

A scream came from across town, startling them out of their conversation.

Sam took off running toward the sound, Andy following just a second later.

"_Help me, PLEASE_! Someone let me _out of here_! _HELP_!" Loud sobbing could be heard from a relatively sturdy woodshed. "_Please,_" came the hopeless request.

"Okay, okay," Sam called to the woman locked in the shed. He examined the door, trying to find some way to open it. It was latched closed by a rusted through padlock. "I'm here. I'll get you out, alright?"

"Please."

Sam looked around for something he could use and found it among the overgrown grass. The large rock was a little hard to lift, but he managed to strike the lock hard enough on the third try to open it.

"Alright," he called to her, taking the lock off. "One second."

He opened the shed door and came face to face with the one person he was hoping he wouldn't run into.

"Ava?" he said, dumbly. He was shocked, despite his foresight. He'd known he would run into her, but it startled him nonetheless to find himself in front of her—within striking distance, he couldn't help but realize.

"Oh my god, Sam?" She flung herself at him, clenching him tightly in a hug.

She'd been given the same ability as he had, he remembered—precognition—and she'd been putting it into practice for months now. There was no doubt in Sam's mind that Ava had seen his abduction, possibly even his death. She knew just as much about him, if not more, than he knew about her. That made her dangerous and Sam was ill prepared for her coming attacks.

"I guess you guys know each other," Andy said, the first words he'd spoken since his onslaught of questions. In all honesty, Sam had forgotten he was even there.

Ava looked at him, startled also by his presence.

"Hi," he said awkwardly, waving his hand. "Andy."

"Okay," she said, promptly dismissing him.

Sam felt bad for the guy. He wasn't handling things well.

"What's happening?" Ava asked.

The tears in her eyes helped sell the 'damsel in distress' bit, but Sam wasn't convinced.

"I, uh, I –I don't really know yet," he lied. "I know one thing. I know what the three of us have in common."

Distantly, Sam could hear footsteps and another woman talking.

"Maybe more than three," he said curiously.

Sam walked toward the noise, the other two trailing behind him. He didn't like having Ava at his back, but she seemed willing to play her part for now so he didn't worry about the knife looming over them and whether or not Ava was the one holding it.

"Hello?" Sam called when he could no longer follow the voices. Two familiar faces came into view from around the corner of yet another building. The soldier—Jake—and the manic—Lily. "Are you guys okay?" he asked.

"I think so," the soldier said.

"I'm Sam," he said in greeting. It seemed to be the first question that needed answering. He knew who everyone else was, but he knew they wouldn't know him.

"I'm Jake."

"Lily." The woman's arms closed tighter around himself in a move that was all too familiar to Sam. She was trying to hold herself together, physically and mentally. It was too much to take in the things that had been happening to her. Sam understood. It had been hard for him as well.

"Are there any more of you?" he asked. He didn't think there were. He'd counted five. There were four new additions: Jake, Lily, Andy, and himself. Ava, the fifth, was the reigning champion of the gauntlet. There shouldn't be any more.

"No," Jake said, shaking his head. He still seemed a little out of it, but Sam knew that he was really just taking in his surroundings, looking for possible escape routes. Sam was in the man's head from the outside, not enough to peek at his thoughts, but just to get a taste for them. He was in all of their heads and, unlike it had been with others before he'd arrived in this town, there was a distinct lack of discomfort when he applied more pressure, gathered more information. Strange.

"How did we even get here?" Lily asked. "A minute ago, I was in San Diego."

It was a question Sam didn't want to answer. Somehow, he didn't think teleportation would be an acceptable theory.

"If it makes you feel better," Jake said, looking at her. "I went to sleep last night in Afghanistan."

Then again, maybe it wouldn't be so implausible. "Let me take a wild guess," Sam said instead. "You two are both twenty-three?"

All eyes turned suspiciously toward him.

"We all are," he elaborated. "And we all have… abilities." They would know what he meant.

"What," Jake said. It wasn't a question. He knew exactly what Sam was saying. Denial was something Sam was familiar with as well.

"It started a little over a year ago, when you found you could do things, things you didn't think were possible."

Andy, he knew, could plant messages into people's heads, make them do whatever he wanted. Mind control, only for real, not just in the movies. Jake was strong, lifted a convoy as easily as Sam could lift a butter knife. Lily's gift wasn't a gift, was hardly an ability. With one touch, she could stop someone's heart—had stopped someone's heart.

As they all told of their abilities—Jake excluded and Sam was curious to know why—Sam played back the images he'd seen, showing him the people who would be forced now to kill. He saw the horrified look on Jake's face when he first discovered his strength, the shock and tears that came when Lily's girlfriend dropped dead of a heart attack. He heard Ava's screams when her fiancé died, the water cascading from the dam when Andy watched his brother kill the woman he loved. He saw it all and he played the images over and over in his mind, knowing that he would see more before his time was out.

When he came back to the conversation, Lily and Jake were arguing. He winced a little at the loss of time. Being in his own mind—and theirs—was taking from the attention he could pay to the outside world. He couldn't afford to lose it, especially when he knew Ava was plotting even now.

"…don't talk to me like that," Lily was saying.

"Guys, please, come on, look." Sam interrupted the argument easily. With all eyes on him, he realized that the one thing he didn't have was a plan. "Whether we like it or not," he said lamely. "We're all here and so we all have to deal with this."

"Who brought us here?" Andy asked. This time, it was calm, not panic-induced like his previous questions.

No one seemed to know the answer to that one, but they all looked again to Sam for the explanation. Sam shouldn't have been surprised. He seemed to be the only one who knew what was going on. That wasn't necessarily a good thing, he knew.

"It's less of a who," Sam said, slowly. If he thought they wouldn't like his teleportation theory, there was no way they would like his demon theory. "It's more of a what." It was obscure, but he thought it answered the question pretty well.

"What does that mean?" Ava asked.

She knew what it meant. She probably knew more about the demon than Sam did. What she was doing was trying to induce panic. Sam could sense that much from her. Still, there was no way for him to avoid answering the question now. If he didn't tell them, it would look like he was hiding something. If he did tell them, it would look like he was crazy. Well, he admonished, he _was_ crazy. Had the bracelet to prove it.

Sam discretely tucked the bracelet underneath his sleeve as he answered.

"It's uh…" He exhaled swiftly, trying to gain the nerve to finish the statement. "It's a demon."

* * *

**School has started up again, Readers, which means less time for me to write :( Those last two chapters were the only ones I had written, which means you now have access to everything I've completed so far. I can't promise to continue to update every three days or so like I have been, but I'll try to average a chapter a week and I'll write and post when I have time. The first couple of weeks should be pretty slow so I'll try to schedule some writing time in, but I have a full course load this semester so, again, no promises. One thing I will say: I DO plan on finishing this fic. Unless I have some sort of fatal accident, this story will have an ending, complete with an epilogue and everything :) Read on!**

**P.S. COMMENT! REVIEW! FOLLOW!**


	18. Not Crazy

**It's been a while since I've posted, but here's the next chapter, Fearless Readers. I didn't have much time to edit so please ignore the myriad of mistakes you may come across :)**

**Oh and *Season 3 spoilers. If you aren't caught up, I'm not sure whether I'm really ruining anything for you or not, but I'd like to post the warning just in case.**

* * *

"No," Sam said for the hundredth time. "It's what _always_ happens. We've got to stay together."

No one was listening. The others looked at him skeptically as he told them about the demon who had brought them there, not that he knew much about the thing. All it had taken, though, was for Andy to notice his bracelet to instill immediate distrust in him. They were relieved, Sam knew, that he was crazy. If he was crazy, then maybe they didn't have to be.

"The only think I gotta do is stay away from whack jobs, okay? I've heard enough. I'm better off on my own."

Jake took off, followed immediately by Lily.

They both went in opposite directions, Lily choosing to head for the surrounding forest to better make her escape. Jake had another idea. He walked further into the town, presumably searching for something that could give him a clue as to how they got there. Sam was aware of the spiraling thoughts in his mind, all trying to form a logical conclusion to their predicament. It took an abnormal amount of effort to even concentrate though, and he was left with a mind full of jumbled thoughts.

"Sorry, Sam," Andy said, backing away slowly. "It's just… unbelievable." _Crazy_, his mind provided. He followed after Jake, almost losing the soldier when he ducked behind a building.

Ava didn't say anything. She just took off on her own, choosing to enter a small building that Sam could have sworn was locked when he'd checked it. Sam didn't know what to do. He stood there, just off of the porch, watching the others walk away. He followed them with his mind for a while, keeping track of them—especially Ava—to make sure they were safe, but then his head began to hurt.

At first, it was a small thud but it grew larger and Sam knew that it was a vision even though they hadn't caused him pain in months. He'd had enough control over his ability that the transitions were smooth and easy, barely a dull pressure to signify that it was coming at all. It could have been that he was so close to the others or that he was directly in the path of the demon or that he hadn't had time to prepare. Sam didn't know exactly, but none of that mattered at the moment.

The pain brought him down to his knees and he clutched his head, trying to relieve the building pressure. Like it hadn't since the first time, his nose bled. He could feel it drip warmly down his chin, some even going into his mouth. Moisture filled his ears and he knew that they were bleeding also. He couldn't hear anything, either out loud or in his head before the pain was forced away, another sensation taking over completely.

Sam floated, his body cold and unfeeling, the pain in his head a mere memory while the world swirled vividly around him. Vision after vision plagued him. He watched Lily die, hung dead center of the windmill propellers for all of them to see. The message would be clearer than anything else they'd see: _there is no escape_. None of the others, though, would see it as Sam had, from her perspective. They wouldn't see as the demons lifted her with an intangible force, the rope wrapping itself around her neck, the sharp crack of it being broken, but not killing her. She would die slowly, painfully, as the air was cut off from her lungs, every breath a chore until it became impossible to pull even a little into her swelling throat. It would hurt to hang there. The pain in her neck would increase the burn in her lungs. It was a horrible way to die, but Sam had no time before he was feeling the others'.

Jake's and Andy's and Ava's followed right after.

Jake's heart was ripped straight from his chest. No. Ripped wasn't the right word. His heart was removed slowly, more like_ selected_. The little girl's fingers elongated into black points. Her face contorted into a look of pure evil and exhilaration as they dug sharply into his chest, playing a little with the blood there before digging deeper still. Then she would pull. Not out, but to the side, parting his ribs, reveling in each of the snaps as they broke off and revealed more and more of the redness inside him until the heart was exposed. It would continue beating roughly, stuttering with his fear and adrenaline. The girl's fingers would slide into it, bursting the large pocket of blood, letting it squirt all over the room and Jake would be dead as well.

His death was even worse for Sam to see than any of the others if only because he could feel the glee of the thing that did it. He could feel it in himself too, responding to the rising roller coaster of thrill as the little girl slowly took the man apart.

Andy's death was a welcome change, even if he was forced to watch while his head was caved in. Every hit made a wet thud sound and soon his face wasn't even recognizable. Still, Ava swung and swung and swung, letting out all of her pent up rage, killing everything Andy was and ever would be, feeling power course through her veins at taking his life, holding it in her hands and pulling it from him with every hit.

His head was concave and leaking onto the floor and still she swung.

His head was gone and spread out, mixing in with the centuries old dust and still she swung.

There was nothing left but the red-stained floorboards beneath her and still she swung.

The floorboards were gone, gaping holes in them so she could see through to the room beneath and still she swung.

Her muscles were on fire, straining to lift the lead pipe high enough to do damage and still she swung.

All the anger would leak out of her, leaving her open and undefended against the torrents of guilt and self-loathing that threatened to consume her, until they did. It was then that Ava would die. Her body would strain to keep her alive, but the months of fighting for survival had taken their toll and she would collapse, dead.

Sam could see it all—feel it even—like he never had before. His death was the only one missing, but that didn't mean much to him. Regardless of whether he died in Cold Oak, he knew there was no saving him. His last vision ensured that.

Sam stood amid the graves of the fallen, all of whom produced flashes of death in his head as he walked. It was overwhelming, the visions nearly taking over now. Death after death plagued him until he forgot that it wasn't real, that it wasn't all happening in that one instant. Still, he walked over the brown flakes of grass, hearing the soft crunch of leaves under his bare feet, toward the only crypt in the graveyard.

A gun rested heavily in his hand, but when Sam looked down at it, the visions multiplied tenfold and the incessant history of the gun and its maker scrolled through his head. He barely caught sight of the carved pentagram before his sight was gone, replaced by the pull of his mind. He hadn't realized he could have visions in his visions. It was something to remember if he could.

Sam averted his eyes quickly, resolving not to look at the weapon again until he could control it, instead turning his attention to the crypt. Strangely, it was the only object since he'd crossed the tracks that didn't drag him down in a flurry of images, but it called to him and he suddenly knew just what he'd been brought there for, what he'd come to do. It was a Devil's Gate, a doorway to Hell, and he was meant to open it.

The feel of Sam's body came to him slowly. It started with a slight pressure, as if all of the air in the room was expanding, pressing him closer to himself. Soon, he could feel the dull thud of his head. It paled in comparison to that of his visions, but it ached nonetheless. His hands were peppered with small cuts from his fall. Blood no longer dripped from his nose and ears, but he could feel the hardened remnants of it on his skin.

He tried lifting his head, but the strength it would have taken was insurmountable and he just couldn't do it. As the last of the cobwebs cleared from his mind, Sam was aware of his surroundings. He used his arms to pull himself up, trying twice before he was able to lift his body up into a sitting position. Even propped against the porch, Sam had trouble holding himself upright. The visions had taken their toll on him and he wasn't sure if he would ever work the same again. Already, he knew his muscles had lost some of their definition, his eyesight was blurrier, and his limbs refused to move how he wanted them to.

Sam's thoughts were in a scramble, warring with him. He could feel the subliminal instructions—_heartbeat, breathing, damaged tissues, damaged tissues, damaged tissues—_being sent out to his body, trying to keep it alive. He watched his repressed memories on instant replay, over and over again, consuming his thoughts. The walls he'd built in his mind had broken down. Sam wondered whether he would ever be able to rebuild them. It made it increasingly harder to function without them. He had a hard time separating memories, thoughts, and visions from the world around him. They all swirled together, but everywhere there was the press of his body to ground him.

Sam pulled himself up to standing, his protesting muscles sending off alerts in his head. He ignored them as much as he could, leaning against the railing to maintain his balance. Everything would be fine as long as he was standing. He'd seen it, hadn't he? He would _walk_ into the graveyard, so that meant this wasn't permanent, right? Sam didn't know.

It took him a moment to process a loud sound coming from deep within the town.

A yell.

Andy.

Without thinking about it, Sam was off. He stumbled more than ran down the dirt road, glancing this way and that for some clue to tell him where they were. A small glimpse of flashing white in a window drew him closer.

It took some doing to trudge up the stairs, but he pulled himself up with help from the decaying rails. One look inside and he knew he wasn't too late. The girl had her claws inside Andy, was still in the process of pushing them in, when Sam entered. He wouldn't die this way, Sam knew. Andy's head would be nonexistent, spread out among the floorboards instead of on his shoulders as it was now, when he died.

Sam grabbed tight to the first thing his hands came in contact with—a fireplace poker—and he brought it down, eliciting a quick flash through his mind of Ava bringing the pipe down on Andy. He almost fell when, instead of coming in contact with the hard flesh of the child, the poker passed right through the girl. She scattered into the air, morphing into black smoke, and fled with a shriek.

The weapon dropped from Sam's hands and fell to the floor with a clang. Andy's breathing was heavy and his shirt had tears and bloodstains, but he would be fine. The wounds were superficial, if a bit painful. Jake had been in the corner, frozen at the sight of the girl killing Andy, but now that she was gone, he rushed forward to check Andy's wounds. He applied pressure to the worst ones and tore bandages from Andy's sweater.

"What the hell was that?!" Andy exclaimed.

"It was a girl…" Jake began, but he was cut off immediately by Andy's hysterical, "that _wasn't a girl!"_

Sam laughed. It was a quiet, hopeless laughter, but it was just so funny.

"Why are you laughing?" Jake didn't seem to find it as amusing as Sam did.

"It was a girl that wasn't a girl. Don't you know what that means?" Sam asked, still laughing. Tears began forming in his eyes and he didn't have the strength to hold them back. Sam went down on his knees without choosing to do so. He didn't even have the strength to stand, was surprised he'd had any to begin with.

"It was a demon," Jake surmised.

"No—yes—but no." Sam's smile was more relieved than anything. "It means I'm not crazy." His laughter took away anything he would have wanted to say. He wasn't crazy. All of his visions were true—the demons, the death, the apocalypse, all of it. Monsters that were the crux of children's nightmares were all real. Even the man he'd seen on the night Jessica had died was real, the sight of her soul hadn't just been hallucinated. He wasn't crazy and it was all real.

He soon found himself face down, cheek pressed against cold wood. He lied on the dust-strewn floor in the middle of Cold Oak, South Dakota, despair consuming him until unconsciousness stepped in.

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**This was supposed to be the second to last chapter, but then I had this totally epic dream last night (which spurred me on to write this chapter at like 5am) and now I have a better (in my opinion) way of ending this story. So, that "10-15 chapters" thing: lie. And that "15-20 chapters" thing: also a lie. I have no idea how many chapters it's going to be, but I do know that I'm going to be taking this story up to the end of season 5 instead of season 3. For those of you who aren't caught up yet, it's fine to keep reading. I'll post warnings for the season spoilers. Thanks for sticking with me, Readers :) Read on!**


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